The Secret Syndicate
by Franklin W. Dixon
Summary: The Hardy Boys origin story. Fenton Hardy is investigating an espionage ring while a beloved book series read by the Hardys and their chums have gone through strange revisions. Could the two be related?
1. Foreword

FOREWORD

Following the success first with the initial seed books of fond memory, then the enormous popularity of the canon itself, it is now indisputable evidence expressed by the popular culture that the Hardy Boys series has shaped untold numbers of youth in not only their own formation of instinct and aptitude, but also in their love of reading. I have received scores of letters and notices from those who discovered the thrilling world of literature by first exploring the adventures of Frank and Joe Hardy.

Given the exalted position the Hardy Boys now find themselves, I felt it was due time to finally present to the public the mystery that began it all. Because the investigation you are about to read is officially attributed to Fenton Hardy, my publisher originally rejected my submission of this manuscript, opting to begin their series with the first official case solved distinctly by Frank and Joe in Bayport. That is of course detailed in a mystery-thriller called _The Tower Treasure_.

I consistently intended on returning to the following unreleased mystery, but recounting Frank and Joe's new cases while revising old ones has kept me far too busy. On an aesthetic level, I have always been particularly displeased that the reference to the secret syndicate case remained in the opening of both the original _Tower Treasure_ and its revision. You may recall the very first sentence I wrote in that volume, in a chapter called "The Speed Demon": "After the help we gave dad on that forgery case I guess he'll begin to think we could be detectives when we grow up." I was advised by editors for the revision to still maintain reference to this first case, though in a much veiled form: "After the help we gave dad on his latest case, he ought to set up the firm of Hardy  & Sons." Yet it nagged at me: _Would readers be wondering what that case was, and what involvement Frank and Joe really had?_ _The Secret Syndicate_ is the story of that first case.

I thought it best to publish, free of charge, onto a "Fan Fiction" site, after Web enthusiasts persuaded me such a platform ideal for this book, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

F.W.D


	2. Chapter I Alley Figure

CHAPTER I

 _Alley Figure_

When the 2:45 bell finally clanged, the main doors of Bayport High School blasted open. Wailing teenagers crisscrossed into all directions into the sunny, spring afternoon.

Among those bounding out with their fellow classmates was a rotund boy with fireball rosy cheeks, Chester "Chet" Morton, Jr., bumping into a few of the unfortunate who crossed his path as he rumbled his way to the oak-lined tree sidewalk on Barmet Boulevard. A mischievous grin escaped from Morton's fleeting figure when he heard cries behind him. He ducked down, darting, as he clutched something underneath his jacket.

"Halt, thief!" shouted lanky wrestling and boxing star Allen "Biff" Hooper, emerging from the school in full speed after Chet. Giving chase with Biff was a shorter boy, but of medium build, baseball player Jerry Gilroy.

Confused students did double takes as they stared at Morton, whom few ever before saw running at such a clip, and even more confused when Bill and Jerry, star ballplayers as they were, trailed far behind him.

Exiting with relaxed strides each clutching a strap of books, Frank and Joe Hardy shared a long laugh at the sight before them. "If Coach Horvath ever saw Chet move like this," said blond Joe, seventeen, a year younger than his dark-haired brother, "he would have transferred him from the line to fullback!"

"Sure—if footballs were giant ice cream sandwiches," Frank added. They said hello to their classmates as they walked toward the street. The comfortable Atlantic Ocean breeze tempted students with visions of summer.

Bayport, with a population of 50,000, was situated off Barmet Bay, three miles from the ocean. Its thriving port brought a strong economy to the region, but it still prided itself as a small-knit community.

By now, Biff and Jerry had easily caught up with Chet, and playfully wrestled away from him what he had secretly been lugging. Biff held up the prize triumphantly: a turtle!

"Where were you thinking of going with that, Chet?" Frank asked as he and Joe joined the trio.

Chet plopped down on the sidewalk, panting. "Mr. Kraemer in my Science class said the first student to identify the family of turtles down at the pet shop would get extra credit. As long as I return it to the pet store before closing, that is."

"But you don't need the extra credit," Biff teased. "You know more than anyone this is turtle is of the _Dermatemydidae_ Family."

"That's what you think," Chet glumly said. "I know I've been caught up in ancient reptiles lately, but I need that extra credit, fellows. Especially with the end of the year exams approaching."

Biff and Jerry exchanged glances with the Hardys, who nodded sympathetically. Then Biff set the turtle in Chet's lap.

"Come on," Joe said, pulling Chet's elbow. "Let's stop by the malt shop next to the pet store."

Chet immediately brightened and rose to his feet, cradling the turtle. "Now you're talking!"

Just as Chet started to cross the street, a whirring police sedan blared its siren as it passed the school. The boys grabbed Chet's collar, yanking him back on the sidewalk.

"Watch it, Chet!" Jerry warned.

"Frank, look who's in the car!" Joe pointed at the passing police cruiser, speeding past them down Chestnut Road.

"Dad!" Frank replied as he glimpsed his father, detective Fenton Hardy, riding in the passenger seat of the vehicle.

"Where do you suppose they're going?" Biff asked.

"Not sure," Frank answered. "But I'll wager it has to be related to the current case he's on."

Their father had recently retired from a successful career with the New York City Police Department and had been consulting Bayport Police Department while beginning a new venture as a private investigator.

Once the vehicle was out of sight and the siren died down, Chet piped up, "L-lesson learned: never jaywalk."

Their brightened mood quickly returned as the group approached the cross walk, where Ms. Milroy wagged her Stop sign at them. "It serves you right to be nearly pancaked after trying to jaywalk, Mr. Morton. In more ways than one."

Chet looked down sheepishly, clutching the turtle tighter. The other boys smiled at Ms. Milroy's chastisement of their portly friend.

"Well, are you crossing or not?" Ms. Miller prodded, stopping the traffic at the intersection and impatiently motioning for the boys and other students waiting behind him.

"Yes, now we are…thank you, Ms. Milroy!" Joe hastily replied as they quickly trotted across the street.

As they walked towards downtown, Frank and Joe fell behind the others. "I hope Dad is not in too much danger," Joe said with some worry.

"It seemed they were headed down to the peninsula. Maybe they were closing in on the spy ring he's been staking."

A resounding automobile horn caused Chet to jump. "Oh, no, not again," he moaned.

They turned to see a coughing jalopy pull up to the curb. "Queen!" Chet called out, his nickname for the old car he recently purchased. His sister, Iola, was driving.

"Dad dropped me off at the shop to get it," she explained. "We looked for you but someone said you were stealing a turtle from school?"

The boys laughed. "Poor Chet has given us plenty of laughs today," Joe said as he walked over to greet Iola, his classmate, and one for whom he had the most affection.

"I'm on my way to Main Street, do you want a lift?" she asked.

Joe smiled broadly. "You bet; we're heading that way as it is." But as he took a step towards the passenger door, he was elbowed out of the way by Chet.

"Chet," Joe mumbled, "the backseat's big enough for you _and_ the turtle!"

"But if Iola needs help with directions, I know the shortcuts," Chet replied as he climbed into the front seat. A disgruntled Joe pouted as he pried open the rear door.

"We'll meet you at the malt shop, gents," Frank waved as the car rumbled off.

As the three walked toward Main Street, Biff and Jerry occupied themselves talking about the new baseball season. But Frank was thinking of the speeding police cruiser. His father did not seem to even notice them as they passed. He was itching to know more.

After Chet returned the turtle to the pet store and learned that it indeed belonged to the _Dermatemydidae_ Family as Biff hinted, the group enjoyed malts and shakes at Piper's Snack Shop. When they rose to go Joe returned with an extra malt.

"Who's that for?" Chet asked. His penchant for seconds was well known.

"It's a surprise for Iola while she's working at the bookshop," Joe answered.

Sinclair's, the popular bookstore, was a storefront directly across from the shake shop on Main Street. Iola worked the front register and customer service inquiries for Mr. Sinclair, the owner. The bookstore had been a Sinclair family business for more than half a century.

"Joe, how did you know butter pecan was my favorite?" Iola asked as she accepted the shake.

"Better keep it under the counter so Mr. Sinclair doesn't think you're slacking," Joe answered.

As Joe chatted with Iola, Biff and Jerry drifted to the latest sports magazines. Frank browsed the new book arrivals display. To his own surprise, Callie Shaw emerged from an aisle with a stack of books.

"Hello, Callie," Frank greeted his pretty, brown-haired classmate. "Here, let me help you."

"Thank you, Frank. Mr. Sinclair said I could borrow some of these history books for research while I'm at my aunt's salon." Callie lived with her aunt, Polly, owner of Polly's Beauty Boutique, next door to Sinclair's. "They're so rare they're not in the library system."

Frank glanced at some of the titles. They were bound collections of old news magazines. "What are you researching?" Frank asked.

"Muckraking," Callie replied. "It's for my entrance exam into the state college journalism school."

Frank gave a low whistle. "So you're still wanting to be a journalist?"

Callie nodded. "Investigative journalism, actually."

"Even better," Joe commented. "Say, take a look at these, Frank. Do these bring back memories or what?"

Frank took a book in his hands. " _The Taylor Gang_. Amazing they're still being written."

"Of course it wasn't that many years ago when we were reading them ourselves," Joe chuckled. "But it's great to see them still on the shelves."

Frank read the title aloud. " _Rules for Uprising_. Must be a new one." The cover featured two boys and a girl, around the age of the Hardys and their chums, as they stood at the base of a staircase leading up to an ancient-Greek style temple holding a map. Approaching them from the steps are two men shrouded in desert garb, carrying torches.

"It sure reminds me of the ones we read. But the cover design is a little unusual from what I remember, and the series is numbered differently. Look." He pointed to the upright corner. In yellow lettering behind a red circle a Roman numeral read: IX.

"Number 9?" Joe asked, puzzled. "Maybe a different artist has been designing the newer books. But you're right, Frank. I think we have number nine at home, and I don't think it's this one."

"Harwood van Bueren is still the writer," Frank commented, pointing to the name at the bottom of the cover.

The Taylor Gang was a popular series of mysteries and adventures to exotic lands featuring the fictional gang from Taylor Street—Tim, Ed, and Janie and their friends. While there were other series of books competing with it, The Taylor Gang had outlasted all of them, thanks to the compelling writing from the series creator, the author Harwood van Bueren.

"You know, even I read these when I was a youngster, boys," Mr. Sinclair recalled as he emerged form the back, taking a copy in his hands. "Ask your parents; I'm sure they did, too."

The boys greeted Mr. Sinclair whom they had known since they were in grammar school buying the latest Taylor Gang volume.

"Sounds like you've noticed the differences in the new books," he said to Frank and Joe.

They nodded. "When did the continuity change?" Joe asked.

"Since the beginning of this year," Mr. Sinclair answered. Then his voice clouded a bit. "They've been hugely popular, though," he continued. "Youngsters from even outside Bayport, and even the occasional nostalgic adult, come by whenever a new volume has been issued. I'm surprised I still have those copies left."

"Do you have the old ones here? They're along the side aisle in the back, right?" Frank asked, starting to walk down the aisle.

Sinclair hesitated before answering. "Actually," he said slowly, "All of those have been bought. I'm out, Frank."

Frank stopped. "Oh," he said. "I guess you're not kidding they're still pretty popular." But something in Mr. Sinclair's demeanor told him otherwise.

The front door opened, clanging the bell attached to it. Three ruffian-looking youths stormed in, casting unfriendly glances at those inside.

"Welcome to Sinclair's!" Iola greeted with a smile.

The boys ignored her. Mr. Sinclair approached them and asked gruffly, "How can I help you, boys?"

The leader of the trio, a freckled-face but somewhat dirtied youth with disheveled strawberry blond hair retorted, "You know. We want the Taylor Street Gang. The newest ones."

"Right here," Frank said, holding up _Rules for Uprising_.

The boy approached him, looking up at the older Frank with a menacing glare. "You're not supposed to read in the bookstore. Let me have it, friend."

Frank stared, incredulous at the boy's attitude. By now, Chet, Biff, Jerry, and Joe crowded around the group. Two of the youngsters squirmed nervously, but the leader was unfazed.

"They've been in here before," Iola whispered to Callie. "He keeps getting more rude."

Finally, Frank grinned. "Here you are," he said, handing the book to him. The boy snatched it, grumbling a sardonic "thank-you" as he went to the register and paid for the book.

"Let's go, fellows," he growled, shooting one more glance to Frank as they slammed the door open.

"Kids these days!" Chet said as they watched the three hop on their bicycles and pedal off.

A few minutes later, the group broke up. Frank and Joe headed home, to their Victorian stone house on the corner of Elm Street and High Street. Their mother, Laura Hardy, was entertaining a lady friend, Mrs. Trumbull.

Frank and Joe greeted both women. "Any word from Dad, Mother?" Joe asked. They quickly related the incident of seeing their father in the speeding police car after school.

"I only know what he told me this morning," Mrs. Hardy answered, "that he'll be home for dinner."

"Would it be all right if we took a quick ride down to the docks? We think that's where they were headed."

"Yes, but be quick. I know both of you have big essay papers due soon, and you have to give yourselves plenty of time to finish."

"We'll be right back," Frank promised as they hurried out the door.

With High Street leading to the bay, Frank and Joe cycled away from the traffic, as drivers were returning home from a day's work.

Barmet Bay was a horseshoe-shaped inlet, and usually teemed with activity as vessels from around the world arrived and departed. A peninsula on the northeast side of the bay, called Bayport Island, comprised of affluent homes and restaurants. The port of Barmet Bay was often overrun with merchant and sailors visiting the seedy dance halls and nighteries after unloading whatever unique cargo was in their charge.

Now it was a quiet part of the day, and Frank and Joe saw no sign of police activity, or their father.

They were about to turn back when they heard a low noise sound three times from a dark alley.

"Sounds like a cat purr," Joe said. "Should we see if it's okay?"

"I can't see anything down the alley," Frank squinted. "I left the bicycle seat pack with the flashlight in the barn."

The noise sounded again, three times. Then a light flashed three times at them!

"Come on," Franks said. "Someone's in that alley trying to get our attention."

Frank and Joe hopped off their bikes and carefully strode toward the darkened alley off a dilapidated warehouse, with one street lamplight barely casting any light.

"Who's there?" Joe called softly.

"Closer," the voice of an old man croaked from within the shadows. "I need help."

"What is it, old timer?" Frank asked. "Are you hurt?"

Just as they stepped into the darkness, they dropped their bikes and let out a yell. Two powerful hands grabbed both of Frank and Joe's arms and lunged the brothers into the blackness of the alley!


	3. Chapter II Unwelcome Message

CHAPTER II

 _An Unwelcomed Message_

Frank and Joe attempted to twist away from the firm grip of the old man, until he spoke softly to them. "Frank, Joe!" he whispered.

They stopped wrestling away from him. The old man shone his flashlight under his chin.

"Dad!" they both exclaimed in a low voice.

Fenton Hardy, in disguise with a tattered, navy blue woolen turtleneck, white beard and hair, and topped off with a black winter hat, put his finger to his lips. The boys had known their father to be well adept at disguises, but had never yet seen him before in character.

"Are you undercover?" Frank asked. He and Joe quickly related seeing their father in the police cruiser on Barmet Boulevard.

Fenton nodded. "I'm on a stakeout," he explained. "I have been tracking a spy ring for several months now. I have reason to believe the suspects have been receiving shipments every few weeks down here at the port around this time of night. We thought we had the suspects cornered earlier today before the ship arrived, so Chief Collig set up a raid. But their hideout was abandoned. Someone must have tipped them off."

"So if they're still in the area they may be suspicious of the police, but not an old sailor," Joe said.

Fenton nodded. "Precisely."

The three then heard a rumble of a large vehicle approaching. As it slowed at the stop sign, its brakes squealed loudly.

"Farther back," Fenton directed. Frank and Joe grabbed their bicycles as they retreated further into the alley's shadows. The headlights of a truck splashed in their direction as it stopped at the intersection. The Hardys could see under the streetlight the dark green truck was rusted and dented. Then it moved ahead down Bayview Road, the main strip that ran along the docks.

"That's the fourth time that truck has been by," Mr. Hardy said softly.

"It looked unmarked," Frank noted.

"And the tires have dried mud on them," Joe observed. "Think it might be related to your case?"

"I'm beginning to think so," his father replied. "It might be waiting for a ship to come to port. Or it might be nothing related to the case at all. Come on."

Fenton led his sons quickly down the alley. They could hear the truck on the other side of the buildings as it bumped across potholes and yielded at further stop signs.

"We can follow it, Dad," Joe offered excitedly.

"Wait…" Fenton warned as he held out his arm stopping the boys. They crouched behind a trash dumpster. A back service door of a shabby Italian restaurant creaked open. A burly man with tattoos on his arm wearing a cook's apron tossed two trash bags into the dumpster. The man returned inside, not having noticed the Hardys.

"We're falling behind the truck," Joe moaned.

"Okay, go ahead and follow them on your bikes," their father directed, handing Joe his flashlight. "If they make another circle, let them go. If not, find out where they stop. I'll be at The Point," he said. The Point was where the boardwalk ended at the end of the pier. On nice days it served for scenic viewing for those visiting the bay.

Frank and Joe could barely contain their excitement as they mounted their bicycles. They had long admired their father's work, and now they were finally helping him!

Quickly, they rode onto Bayview Road. "There it is, Frank," Joe said, steering away from the parked vehicles along the street. "Just a block ahead."

The boys knew the geography of the pier well. Bayview Road continued on for a half mile before it dead-ended into a sand dune, which soon became property of old Felix Pollitt, whose mansion sat perched above on the cliff. Either the truck had to turn onto the main drag, Shore Road, which wound its way out of Bayport, or loop back into town via Barmet Boulevard.

"We have to make sure we stay far enough back but we can't lose it," Frank shouted as they furiously maneuvered their bicycles down the road.

"Frank, it's turning! Let's hold on here for a minute." They skidded to a halt. The truck was pulling into a small lot where a cargo ship was coming in to dock. It blared its foghorn.

"Well, there you have it," Frank said. "Seems fairly unsuspecting. We might as go meet Dad at The Point."

"What are you two doing?" a voice growled from behind them. There was something familiar in the unfriendly tone.

Frank and Joe whipped around. "You again!" Joe cried. It was the young ruffian from Sinclair's Bookstore!

Why don't you tell us what you kids are doing down here at this hour?" Frank retorted. He was tired of the younger boy's no-good attitude.

The freckle-faced urchin smirked. "You've been following that truck. Why?"

"Come on, Joe," Frank said, getting onto his cycle. "Sorry there, boys, but we have to be off."

No sooner did Frank and Joe begin to pedal away then they were tackled behind, pulled down from their bikes by the two other hooligans who accompanied their bully leader at the bookstore. Frank and Joe attempted to wrestle them away, but the rascals clawed at their faces and eyes.

After Joe kicked the legs out of his assailant, the Hardys took the upper hand in the struggle. They avoided directly hitting the younger boys, despite their tough demeanor. Seeing his team on the defensive, the leader helped his boys to their feet.

"Get their bikes," he ordered. "We'll rendezvous at Citadel with the others."

Hastily, the rapscallions snatched Frank and Joe's bicycles and hastened off down the road toward the docks. The leader hopped onto a motorcycle with attached sidecar, and scurried away ahead of his cronies. They quickly disappeared down a narrow alleyway.

"Let's go after them!" Joe said, scrambling to his feet.

"We're too far behind, Joe," Frank lamented. They both smacked dirt off their khakis.

"Overrun by three kids," Joe groaned, kicking the ground. "Some gumshoes we are."

"Let's meet back up with Dad. He'll sure be disappointed in us."

The boys studied the nameless truck in the distance. A few moments later, it roared away from the unloading dock.

"It didn't even wait for the port authority inspection!" Joe cried as the truck rumbled onto Bayview Road.

Frank and Joe dejectedly turned towards the direction of The Point. "Who would've guessed we'd see them again," Joe commented. "Didn't Mr. Sinclair mention they come from out of town?"

"We'll have to ask him if he knows where. It will help when we fill out the police report for the stolen bikes," Frank answered.

The boys found their father at The Point, still in disguise. They told him about both the truck and the young thieves. Mr. Hardy didn't recognize the name "Citadel," but noted it down as a potential clue.

"We're sorry, Dad. We let you down," Frank said.

"Those boys were an unfortunate roadblock," Mr. Hardy said. "And I do find it a bit odd you saw them twice in one day. Let's see if we can get some information on that cargo ship while it's still docked."

So as not to arouse suspicion, the boys trailed the limping old sailor to an unmarked black sedan, which was on loan to Fenton Hardy from the Bayport Police Department.

"Frank, you drive," his father said as he tossed him the keys. Joe sat in the passenger seat while Fenton crawled into the back, staying down.

Frank drove down Bayview Road. The boys pointed out to their father where they were jumped. A little ahead, Mr. Hardy instructed Frank to let him out. "Hang tight," he said.

Fenton, in the character of the old sailor, trudged down to the cargo ships. Two seamen, one in overalls and the other smoking a pipe, nudged the other as Fenton drew closer. They both smiled at the sight of the old man.

"Looking for something, Gramps?" the sailor in overalls crustily asked.

"Eh?" Fenton asked, squinting. "Don't hear so good, anymore. Too many capsizin's in my day," he chortled. Then he let out a long cough.

"What brings you to Bayport?" the other asked, shouting.

"Jest up from a voyage down south," Fenton replied. "Lookin' fer the next job. How 'bout you, boys?

"Passin' through ourselves. Came in just an 'our ago on this vessel here from the port in the Hudson Bay," the one smoking the pipe answered.

As they talked, Fenton noticed a shadowy figure behind the seamen lurking in the shadows of the ship. He knew he was being watched.

"Need help unloadin'? Could use the work, fellers," Fenton asked with a hopeful tone.

"Nah—unless you want to wait until tomorrow. There was a quick unload tonight but that was all."

"Shipment already picked up?" Fenton asked, quizzically.

"Hey buddy, we don't ask questions," the overall man said. "We offered to help the guys but they showed up in a truck and did it themselves."

"We didn't mind them doin' the work for us even if they were kids," the other quipped, re-lighting his pipe.

"Well," Fenton said with a quick wave, "I'll swing by tomorra if ye all need a hand."

The seamen waved, already chatting to themselves about other matters and walking towards the vessel. Fenton returned to the street still honing his limp, but at a quicker pace. He slipped into the sedan unnoticed.

"What did you find, Dad?" Joe asked as Frank car merged onto Barmet Boulevard.

By now, Fenton was removing his disguise. "I believe your young bicycle thieves and my espionage ring are connected," he replied.

"Sure was too much of a coincidence for them to be down on the bay at this hour just as that truck was making its rounds," Franks responded.

"I'll drive you to school tomorrow and we can file the police report on the way. I wonder what the gang's going to say about your stolen bicycles," their father chuckled, playfully punching Joe's shoulder.

They arrived home, apologizing to Mrs. Hardy for missing dinner. "I had a suspicion you wouldn't be right back," she answered. "So I decided to wait."

Frank and Joe each kissed their mother on the cheek.

"We'll take care of it, Mother. 'Unfortunate roadblocks'," Joe said.

The boys worked together while the meatloaf cooked preparing the mashed potatoes and green beans. The family then enjoyed supper together discussing the exciting elements of Mr. Hardy's case and the intrigue Frank and Joe were beginning to find themselves.

While the brothers were cleaning up in the kitchen, Joe thought aloud, "Iola might know something about these characters, Frank. She's been working at the bookstore for almost a year now."

Joe gave a ring over to the Morton home. The family owned a farm on the outskirts of Bayport.

"Hiya, friend," Chet answered. "Let me get her for you."

Iola took the receiver from her older brother. "Hello there, Joe!"

"Iola," Joe asked, "Do you remember the boys who came in today for the Taylor Gang books?"

"Of course," Iola replied. "They actually came back a little after you left and complained that I overcharged them!"

"Well, that's not surprising. How long have they been coming into the bookstore?"

Iola thought for a moment. "I'd say around the start of the year. So a few months."

"Do they buy anything else?"

"No. Just that series."

Joe thanked Iola and hung up. Frank and Joe sat down at the kitchen table.

"Think there's any reason why these boys would become regulars at the bookstore at that time? And just for those particular books?" Joe asked his brother.

"I would like to say an interest in reading but not after tonight!" Frank replied.

"Don't forget your homework, boys," their father said as he entered the kitchen. "Remember, you have to balance your priorities."

The boys agreed and spent the rest of the evening attending to their studies. That night, all was quiet in the Hardy home as the family slept. Though it was springtime, the Bayport weather grew significantly cooler at night, so the house's windows were locked and closed.

Still, Frank arose with a start when he thought he heard a noise. "Joe," he called out quietly. "Did you hear that?"

"Sounded like a bicycle brake—one of our bikes!" he said. "Should we wake Dad?"

"Might be nothing. Let's check it out."

Quietly, the boys tiptoed downstairs, straining to hear anything further. As they neared the ground floor, they could hear murmuring just outside the front door. It sounded like two male voices.

At the same time, Frank and Joe noticed the occasional flash from a flashlight beam through the front window, as if someone was handing it off to another person.

They reached the end of the staircase when a part of the main window shattered as an object was hurtled into the Hardy family living room!


	4. Chapter III Radical Revisions

CHAPTER III

 _Radical Revisions_

The noise awakened Mr. and Hrs. Hardy with a start. "Boys?" their father called from the hallway.

"Down here, Dad!" Frank responded as he and Joe raced to the front door. Opening it, they saw no one. Whoever threw the object had disappeared.

By now Fenton had joined them as they huddled around the object. "It's the flashlight those kids took from us!" Joe exclaimed. Wrapped around the light's gray handle with a rubber band was a piece of paper.

"Be careful before opening it," their father advised. "We'll want to check for prints."

Sporting specialized gloves and using a pair of tweezers, the detective removed the rubber band. Gingerly, he unfurled the paper, its edge frayed as if torn from a student's spiral notepad.

His sons crowded around him to read the note:

" _You're sniffing around too much for your own good. Now that we know you have two sons, we don't want to get them into any more trouble than they are already in!_

 _The Syndicate"_

"The nerve of those kids! How did they know about you, Dad?" a riled Frank asked.

"I don't think it was them, son," Fenton said thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?"

"While they may have been charged with delivering this, I don't think they wrote this note." Privately, he thought of the shadowy figure watching him down at the cargo ship, and remembered the hired sailors who mentioned the unloaded shipment was done by a group of youngsters.

After a moment, he continued. "Now I'm convinced they're involved with the spy ring I'm investigating. 'The Syndicate' has been a codename for that ring."

"And they wanted you to know it was them," Frank concluded.

"Fenton, what happened?" Mrs. Hardy, worried, sounded from upstairs.

"We're fine, Laura. We'll report this along with the stolen bicycles tomorrow," her husband answered. He examined the damage to the window. "Boys, grab the painter's tape and cover the broken part of the pane. I'll stay down here the rest of the night just in case they return."

"We can take turns, Dad. You need rest as well," Frank offered.

"Fine," his father replied with a quick grin. "You can take first watch, then."

As it was nearly three in the morning, Frank kept alert for the first hour. Joe relieved him at four, followed by Fenton at five. No further disturbances occurred the rest of the night. The boys came downstairs ready for school and prepared breakfast at 6:30.

"Inconclusive on the prints, unfortunately," their father reported. "But as you both indicated, we at least know your suspects are in cahoots with my suspects. What doubly worries me is that they are mere youths. Why would they be involved in something like The Syndicate?"

Mrs. Hardy poured herself a cup of coffee. "Perhaps when you file that police report, check with the chief if they have any leads on runaways in the nearby area," she suggested. "Those boys have to come from somewhere."

"Good idea, Mother," Joe said as he grabbed his brown bag lunch. "Oh, Frank, I've nearly forgotten. Follow me."

Joe bounded up the steps to their bedroom. He opened the closet door and pulled out a storage box. "I thought of this while on watch," he explained, removing the lid. He removed a handful of weathered Taylor Gang books, about twenty in total. The set of books was comprised of blue hardcovers. "I'll never forget when Aunt Gertrude sent us this set she got at a garage sale," he recalled smiling. He a volume over to his brother.

Frank read the title aloud. " _The Phoenician Map_. I always liked this one. Don't they go to Teotihuacan in this one?" He smiled as he flipped through the pages. His eye caught the name of the book's previous owner, written in blue pen in the upper right hand corner. "Ah, look, Joe. 'Liam Donahue,' remember that name? Poor boy's loss turned out to be our gain."

But Joe was impatient. "What number in the series is it?"

Frank turned to the cover. "Nine," he replied. "Hold on," he said excitedly. "That's the same number of the new Taylor Gang book we saw yesterday."

Joe nodded. " _Rules for Uprising_." He tapped the cover image. Instead of the trio at the foot of a modern-looking pristine staircase leading up to the Greek temple as in _Rules for Uprising_ , it features the Taylor gang heroes and heroines poring over a parchment at the base of a Mexican pyramid.

"Let's stop by Sinclair's after school," Frank said, thumping _The Phoenician Map_ into Joe's chest. "Some light reading for you."

Before dropping his sons at Bayport High, Mr. Hardy drove them first to the Bayport Police Department where Frank and Joe filled out a police report with Officer Tim Callahan. They provided detail descriptions of the encounter at the Hardy home, a description of the ruffians who stole the bicycles, and details of the old truck that picked up the shipment.

"We'll be in touch the minute we learn something," Callahan assured them as he readied to call local stations regarding any runaways.

Fenton dropped his sons off at Bayport High School before visiting the docks. However, he was disappointed to learn the cargo ship had already left port.

After school, the Hardys met up with Iola and Chet. They rode together to Sinclair's Bookstore for the start of Iola's shift. Chet said he had to do follow up research on the turtle, and promised to meet up with his chums shortly.

"Of course, Chet," Joe said solemnly. Amused, he and Frank watched their plump friend cross the street to the pet shop, then abruptly turn off course and dart into Piper's Snack Shop.

"He doesn't even hide it anymore," Frank sighed, shaking his head.

It was a busy time of the day in the bookstore. As Iola took over for the outgoing clerk, Mrs. Lumpkin, Frank and Joe noticed no copies of new Taylor Gang books at the display. They found Mr. Sinclair assisting a customer in the home repair section.

"The Hardys, two days in a row!" he greeted.

"Out of new Taylor Street Gang books?" Joe asked.

Sinclair nodded, grinning widely. "Can't complain. Librarians may scoff at their literary value, but they have been sure sellers for me!"

But soon, Mr. Sinclair's upbeat demeanor turned as the brothers related their incident the night before with the street lads.

His face clouded, Mr. Sinclair remarked, "There's always been something about the boys. Noticed it the first day they walked into my respectable shop."

"What were your impressions?" Joe prodded the book proprietor.

"Didn't strike me the reader type. Certainly not Bayport residents. Something about them struck me as having a rough upbringing, you might say. Actually felt pity for them. Still do. Less so, though. Got no manners."

"And all they ever want are Taylor Gang books?" Joe asked.

Sinclair nodded. "Nothing else. Always grab the newest editions."

"And by the indication that you're currently out of stock, they aren't the only ones interested in them?" Frank queried.

"Oh, sure. I'd say even more than when you two were of age for them. Of course, if you ask me, the book's changed. Series isn't as good. Like I said, I know librarians who wish they weren't in the catalogue."

"In what way?"

"About a year ago, series went through a whole redesign makeover. There was an article about it in _Literary Monthly_. I might have the back issue. At any rate, guess they were trying to keep up with the times."

Frank and Joe followed Sinclair as he snaked around the bookshop to the magazine archives. Joe glanced at the counter where Iola was taking a phone call. He smiled her and she smiled back.

Frank handed Mr. Sinclair the Hardy copy of _The Phoenician Map_. "Oh, look here," Sinclair said as he gazed fondly at the cover. "This was around even before I was a kid. But these old volumes are all out of print now, you know. Completely."

"The book you sold to those boys yesterday was the same series number as this one, but a different title and cover!" Frank said.

Sinclair nodded. "Same series, but plots have changed. Tricking parents and older readers into thinking it's the same as the old versions, but they've completely changed. Tone has changed. Hard to say what exactly. I don't want to say 'streamlined,' but maybe that's it. At any rate, not the good-hearted series we remember."

"But," Joe said as he furrowed his brow, "Harwood van Bueren is still the author?"

" _If_ it's still him," Sinclair mumbled. The Hardys exchanged glances at the thought.

There was silence as the bookshop owner thumbed through a filing cabinet. "Here's the issue I was talking about. Talks about the revisions." He took out a back copy of _Literary Monthly_ and read the table of contents. "Page 17. 'The Restoration of Childhood Classics' by Scott Duffield."

Sinclair handed the periodical over. "On me," he said.

"Thanks, Mr. Sinclair," Frank said as he took the magazine. "Say, you wouldn't by chance have any of the original Taylor Gang books, would you? The ones like this one?" he pointed to the boys' copy of _The Phoenician Map_. "Before the revisions?"

"Unfortunately, everything I had in stock—which were all 33 volumes and a few copies—were all bought out by a single individual about six months ago."

Joe let out a low whistle. "Wonder who that was."

"But," Sinclair continued softly, his eyes darting around suspiciously, "I have something to show you."

Frank and Joe followed Mr. Sinclair to the rear of the store, to a locked door that appeared to be a closet next to his back office and the emergency exit. Sinclair opened the door and motioned for the boys to enter.

Inside the cramped quarters, Sinclair pulled a dangling light switch. The bulb took a moment to respond. When it did, Frank and Joe could see they were indeed in a closet. But then Sinclair reached down and removed a mat.

"Watch out," he warned and gave a tug at a metal ring attached to the floor. A trapdoor opened!

Sinclair unhooked the lamp from a hook on the ceiling. Frank removed his pocket flashlight. He shone it down the black gap in the floor. Steps!

Before descending Sinclair locked the closet door from inside, then Frank and Joe followed him down the rickety wood staircase.

"I'm not a writer," Mr. Sinclair admitted, "but I don't know where I'd be without books. I've lived in Bayport my whole life, but books take me to other worlds. And it started with Harwood van Bueren."

Sinclair switched on another overhead light downstairs. The bookstore basement flooded with light, revealing rows and rows of books crammed on top of each other. There was such an overflow of so many books there were multiple rows on each shelf, with some texts even stacked vertically on the floor.

Frank and Joe stared in awe at the sight before them.

"Over here," Sinclair summoned them. They followed the proprietor whose sunny demeanor had returned.

"This is my family's private collection," he proudly announced. "And here is my own personal compilation." Mr. Sinclair gestured to an entire bookcase that rose to the basement rafters. The Hardys stared up at rows and rows of Harwood van Bueren stories. Included with the Taylor Street Gang series were earlier, little known novels by the juvenile literature writer.

"There's Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Dickens, Dostoevsky, and van Bueren," Sinclair said with a chuckle. "At least, that's what I think. Have a look around, I'm going to check out if I have any records of who that person was who bought all the books."

Sinclair returned upstairs, but the boys barely noticed he was gone. The thrill of discovery the Taylor Gang books used to spark in them returned as they gaped in wonder upon Mr. Sinclair's treasures.

Finally, Frank spoke. "I haven't thought of these books for awhile but I have such great memories of them."

"And how," Joe agreed. "So why the need for changing them? Let's find a copy at another bookstore or library of the new versions and see what the differences are." Yet he couldn't help but gaze at the sight before him.

"Boy," Joe said, "I could spend the rest of the day in here. Some of these I've never heard of before!" For the next few minutes the boys looked at the covers of such titles as _Behind_ _The Grandfather Clock_ , _Thief of Poplar, Desert Ship_ , and _Hemlock Trail._ They felt the thrilling pull of becoming wrapped up in the mystery and adventures of Ed, Tim, and Janie as they encountered thieves, smugglers, saboteurs, and their recurring nemesis, Deke Switalski.

Frank flipped to the article about the books in the _Literacy Monthly_ periodical. "Despite the success of the Taylor Gang and other titles," he read, "Dole  & Toler Publishers in New York abruptly decided to change course after more than 30 volumes sold more than a million copies and reached innumerable youngsters. Dole & Toler employed series creator, reclusive Canadian author Harwood van Bueren, to rewrite the series, sometimes inventing whole new plots and titles. The results, the publishers hope, will ignite a reading revolution in quality literature for impressionable minds."

Frank's reading was halted when Mr. Sinclair returned holding a ledger. "I had Iola check the books regarding that individual who purchased the inventory of van Buerens." He looked up at the boys, ashen.

"Did she find a name, Mr. Sinclair?" Frank asked.

Sinclair nodded. "Scott Duffield."

The boys thought for a minute how they knew that name.

Then they realized Frank was holding the answer in his hand—Scott Duffield, the writer of the article in _Literary Monthly_!


	5. Chapter IV Fenton's Peril

CHAPTER IV

 _FENTON'S PERIL_

Mr. Hardy spent the day working from home. He arranged a window and door company to fix the broken pane in the family living room. Meanwhile, a remodeling contractor was putting the finishing touches on construction of a new study that would serve as Mr. Hardy's private office. The boys were scheduled to help him set it up the coming weekend.

Mrs. Hardy already had fielded a number of calls from potential clients interested in hiring the detective to take on private cases. But the ongoing investigation with the spy ring was proving to be more time consuming than originally planned.

To assist Fenton with the operation, he took out an ad in the _Bayport Times_ and other newspapers in the region publicizing a job opening for an assistant private investigator on a case-by-case basis. Though he interviewed some well-qualified individuals, Fenton Hardy was still searching for the right operative.

Late that morning, a job seeker arrived at the Hardy home, Sam Radley. Reviewing his file prior to the interview, Fenton noted Radley's homegrown roots. A Bayport resident, Radley took some criminology courses at nearby Hunt College. After a time in the military, Radley returned to Bayport, married a woman, Ethel, and obtained his private investigative license. His résumé also included recommendation letters from respected investigators who spoke highly of Radley's credentials.

Radley met with Fenton in the makeshift office the detective was temporarily using on the second floor of the backyard garage, a converted barn. In his early 30s and with sandy-blond hair, Radley's affable demeanor belied his serious work ethic honed in both the service and investigations.

Impressed with Radley, Fenton clued him in on a few details related to his latest case. He showed Radley the note attached to the flashlight that was hurled into the Hardy home, and the clue his boys picked up when the young ruffian mentioned the name,"Citadel."

"Any ideas?" Fenton asked.

Radley studied the handwriting of the warning note. "No question these are pawns for your spy ring," he agreed. "Only question is why. Also, someone knows you're on their tail and might be following your ever move. May I ask what makes you suspect you're hunting an espionage ring?"

"At this point, I can only tell you Chief Collig has asked me to assist the Bayport Police regarding the presence of subversives in the region," Fenton explained. "There has been an uptick in crime such as vandalism, petty theft, shoplifting, and the like."

"And possibly smuggling, based on the shady cargo ship unloading," Radley added.

Fenton nodded. "However, as my case has expanded I believe it may be part of a bigger espionage issue. While I have identified some connections, I have yet to determine identities of the subversives or motives."

As he spoke, the garage phone extension rang. It was a private line reserved solely for the Bayport Police Department to reach the detective.

"Fenton Hardy," he answered. "Yes, Chief Collig." He raised his eyebrows. "Are the men conscious?" Following a quick reply from Collig, Mr. Hardy quickly responded, "We'll be right there. I'll have my new assistant with me—Sam Radley." Hardy hung up and looked over at the surprised Radley.

"Can you start today?" Fenton asked.

During the short drive over to the police station, Fenton explained to his new assistant the purpose of the chief's call. When leaving Bayport earlier that day to return to the Hudson Bay, the captain of the cargo ship learned that two of his mariners were bound and gagged in the ship's engine room. They were the same mariners who spoke with Fenton under the disguise of the old sailor.

Having halted the return voyage, the captain notified Bayport Police and returned to port. After being examined for any medical issues, the seamen were questioned. One mentioned chatting with an old sailor looking for work. When Chief Collig realized the old sailor was likely Fenton Hardy, he placed the call.

At the police station, the husky Collig introduced the men to Fenton Hardy. In turn, Hardy introduced Sam Radley to the chief. Upon questioning the men, he could tell his disguise worked, for neither recognized him.

"We talked to the old timer at the docks," the sailor with the overalls explained. "The other mates had gone into town for grub, so we did a walk around waiting for the inspectors. That's when we were jumped."

"Did you get a look at the assailant?" Fenton asked.

"It was dark," the other said, "but he was a brute. Knew what he was doin'. Bigger than the both of us. Good with his hands."

"They provided us a physical description earlier," Collig informed the detective. "I'll get that to you."

Overalls piped up, "Yes sir, whacked in the back of the head, next thing I knew we were both downstairs in the corner of the engine room bound and gagged."

Fenton again thought of the figure he saw lurking in the shadows of the ship when he was disguised as the old sailor. "We're glad you're both all right," he said. "Anything else you can share with us?"

The two thought for a moment. "There is one thing, and after this maybe I can get my pipe, Chief?"

Collig nodded. "Go on."

The sailor continued, "Well, I was in and out of consciousness, but at one point I thought I heard the thug say something."

Hardy leaned forward. "To you?"

The sailor shook his head, as if trying to recall. "Not exactly, but it makes no sense to me. Now I wonder if someone else was with him?"

"I didn't hear anythin' myself," the other said.

"What did you hear?" Collig prodded.

"I could only make out one word," the sailor confessed. "It was: 'Citadel'."

Fenton Hardy and Sam Radley exchanged glances.

In Collig's office, the chief showed Mr. Hardy the file containing the physical description of the seamen's assailant. At the same time, Mr. Hardy informed Chief Collig on the significance of the name Citadel. The chief promised they would keep alert to the catchword on their end.

Fenton offered to drop the sailors down at port. He hoped to garner more information about those who unloaded the mysterious shipment when the mariners would be comfortable. Radley rode in the passenger seat of the Hardy sedan while the two relieved seamen chatted amiably in the backseat while taking in the pleasant views of Bayport.

"Sure am fond of this small seaside town," the one remarked as he gazed up at the awning oak branches above Kellogg Avenue as Fenton approached Barmet Boulevard.

"Much different than our little village," chuckled the other one. "Shame it produces such wayward youth."

Hardy glanced back at them in the sedan's rearview mirror. Radley turned to face them. "How do you mean?"

"Well, those foul-mouthed youth who assisted the men."

"You saw them?" Radley asked. "The men?"

"Not really. They told us to keep away. That's when we got zonked."

"What do you remember about the youths?"

"Ragged, foul-mouthed, using big words but didn't get the impression they were very smart."

"Do you remember something they might have said?"

"Uh," the sailor in the overall scratched his tussled hair and thought for a moment, "Yeh, I do. 'Foment'. Thought it a strange word, 'foment'."

Mr. Hardy kept his eyes on the road before him, yet he felt a slight shiver go through him. They were approaching the port.

When meeting the captain, Mr. Hardy and Radley were disappointed to find no new clues, though the captain willingly showed them around, including the engine room.

"Whoever it was," Radley observed, "he knew his way around a ship."

Fenton agreed. Turning to the captain he said, "Do you have a record of cargo inventory?

"Only number of crates and companies shipping them. No record of what the goods were."

"May I see the manifest?"

The captain excused himself to retrieve it. While Fenton and Radley waited for him to return, they noticed an approaching Bayport Police squad car. It parked in front of the men. Chief Collig hastily emerged.

"I've just received word from the station," Collig informed Mr. Hardy. "Your wife called."

"Is she okay?" a startled Fenton Hardy asked the chief.

"She is," Collig assured him. "However, there has been a robbery at your home."

Just then the captain returned with a clipboard stacked with carbon copies. "Got the manifest right here, Detective," the captain spoke, then paused when Mr. Hardy exclaimed in a low but urgent tone, "Robbery!?"

"We've already sent a patrol car over, but she herself is unharmed. Was in the area and wanted you to know."

Mr. Hardy by now had collected himself and thanked Chief Collig, who soon left in the squad car with the other officer. Fenton then turned his attention back to the captain.

"We've taken up enough of you and your crew's time as it is, Captain," Mr. Hardy apologized. "Thank you for locating this. May I make a duplicate of this particular inventory and you can be on your way?"

"By all means," the captain agreed. "I just hope these good-for-nothings don't make it a habit of assaulting my men."

"We'll see to it that they don't," Sam Radley assured them.

Fenton and Radley quickly made a copy of the inventory of the companies who had goods on the last cargo ship delivery and saw the ship off. They returned to the Hardy sedan parallel parked on Bayview Road.

"Would you mind reading off the companies as I drive, Sam?" Fenton asked as he started the car.

"Of course," Sam replied, beginning at the top of the document. Traffic was light at this time of day along the water and Mr. Hardy easily merged onto the road heading down Bayview Road toward the fork, gradually accelerating speed.

"There's Brisbane Supplies, Dole & Toler, DWF, Harrison & Sons, Jasper Products..." Radley trailed off as he noticed Fenton feverishly trying to turn the steering wheel. "Mr. Hardy?"

"The steering wheel…it's jammed." He stepped on the brake numerous times, but the vehicle would not respond in slowing down. "The brakes—"

"—Someone sabotaged the car when we were in the ship!" Radley interjected.

Despite numerous attempts to change or slow the vehicle, the sedan was gliding at an accelerated at a downhill angle.

"Going to try the emergency brake. Hang on, Radley!" Fenton reached down for the emergency brake level and tugged. Nothing happened!

Now the sedan was uncontrollably throttling ahead, quickly approaching the dead-end barricade that led to the sand dune cliff with the roaring ocean below!


	6. Chapter V Into the Truck

CHAPTER V

 _INTO THE TRUCK_

As the car careened dangerously towards the dead-end blockade, Fenton unbuckled his safety belt. "Sam," he exclaimed, "we have to bail out pronto!"

"Roger that," Radley replied, also unbuckling his belt.

"Go!"

Immediately both Fenton and Radley darted out the doors of the speeding vehicle and smacked and rolled violently on the stone road moments before the sedan smashed into the metal post, pieces sent flying into numerous directions. With such momentum behind it, the barrier only slowed the car. It bounced wildly over the sand dunes before plummeting off the cliff!

A momentary quiet, then Fenton heard the terrible crash of his car as the vehicle collided into the protruding boulders along the rock-strewn coast. The car's gas tank exploded, a short, billowing fireball rising towards the cliff's edge.

Mr. Hardy, bruised and sprawled on the road, craned to see his new partner. Sam Radley was also face first on the ground, motionless. Fenton forced himself to his feet and staggered over to him.

"Sam! Sam, can you hear me?" Fenton softly shook Radley's shoulder. After a moment, Radley groaned and turned over. His left temple was streaming blood, but Radley opened his eyes and blinked.

Fenton turned as he heard an approaching siren. A patrol car sped towards them, with another one immediately behind it. Chief Collig emerged from the second vehicle and with the other officers checked on both Hardy and Radley. Seeing they were both conscious, Collig ordered an ambulance.

Fenton panted out a recounting of the stalled steering wheel and cut brakes as the officers took notes. When the ambulance arrived, Hardy waved off a stretcher for himself.

"Get Sam medical attention immediately," he said. "But I have to get back home."

Chief Collig protested, but knew the detective wanted to check on his wife and the situation of the robbery at the home. He ordered the first squad car to escort the ambulance to Bayport Hospital and for the two officers to keep watch at Radley's room.

Then Collig directed his vehicle to take Mr. Hardy home. On the way to Elm and High, Collig was patched to Radley's wife to inform her of the news, but that her husband was holding up under the circumstances. Ethel said she would head to the hospital right away.

When the police car arrived at the Hardy home, Mrs. Hardy was more concerned for the safety of her husband and his new partner. After assuring her he they would both be okay, he asked about the daytime robbery.

She explained that after he and Sam left, the builders working on the new study took their lunch break. During that time, Mrs. Hardy was downstairs in the laundry room when she heard a crash upstairs, followed by a flurry of footsteps down the stairs and the sound of the back door smacking shut.

"Where upstairs?" her husband asked.

"The boys' room," Mrs. Hardy answered, fright in her voice.

Alarmed, Mr. Hardy dashed upstairs, avoiding the handrail and taking the steps two at a time while surveying for any footprints or anything left behind on the floor. He examined the damage done to Frank and Joe's room. The wall mirror had shattered. His sons' dressers and shelves were overturned, clothes strewn about, trophies and sports apparel scattered. The robbers had even been through the closet, as the door was off one of its hinges.

Quickly, Mr. Hardy darted into his own bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it appeared to remain untouched. In his closet was a small safe. It, too, did not appear to have been tampered. For security, he turned the combination. Family valuables, passports, and other important documents were safe.

He locked the safe back up and returned to downstairs. There, Sam Radley was already inspecting for prints starting with the backdoor.

"The thieves knew we must have left and when the contractors broke for lunch," Fenton said to his wife. "I have a good suspicion of who is involved, but I'm not sure what they would want from Frank and Joe."

"Fenton, I'm very worried that our sons are being targeted."

He nodded. "I didn't intend for this to happen," he acknowledged. "I promise we'll get to the bottom of it and bring these people to justice." Then he thought for a moment. "Wait a minute."

Mr. Hardy darted back upstairs, examining the closet door of the hinges. Mrs. Hardy entered shortly thereafter.

"Laura," he said, turning to his wife. "That container I bought the boys a few years ago, the blue and white one. Do you see it?" The two looked around the disheveled room in vain. "What did they keep in there?"

Mrs. Hardy thought for a moment. "Oh, how could I forget?" she finally said, her eyes widening in remembrance. "The set of books Gertrude got them—the Taylor Gang books!"

Fenton scowled. "Of all things—why would the thieves want those?!"

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe convened with Chet at Piper's Shake Shop. Having learned that the man who bought the inventory of Taylor Street Gang books at Sinclair's was also the writer Scott Duffield, Joe pored over Scott Duffield's _Literary Monthly_ article, "The Restoration of Childhood Classics," as the three sat at the table.

"Scott Duffield must have sure done his research on the history of the series," Frank observed as he watched his younger brother intently reading. "I noticed in the first paragraph the Taylor Gang is the biggest selling juvenile series in the country."

"Oh, sure," Chet waved his hand in between lengthy sips from his mint chocolate malt. "Don't you remember how we couldn't stop reading them in middle school? Of course," the stout lad boasted, "I was the one who introduced them to everyone."

"Not true!" Joe exclaimed looking up from the magazine. "Actually, Liam Donahue is the one who deserves our thanks!" Frank smiled at the mention of the name written in their collection of the Taylor Street Gang books.

Chet appeared cross. "Why, who is that?"

"Don't worry, Chet," Frank assured him. "I remember when you had your book club for awhile and rounded us all up to read Harwood van Bueren."

As they spoke, Biff Hooper entered the malt shop joined by Tony Prito, the wiry, olive-skinned son of Italian immigrants, and Phil Cohen, slender and bookish. Both were good friends of the Hardys.

"Just in time," Joe greeted the newly arrived mates as they set their sacks of books down at the table. "We've been discussing our fond memories of the Taylor Gang."

"Boy, what brings up that time-honored series?" Tony responded. "Hey, now that I think about it, was your dad involved in coming up with all those mysteries for the writer?"

"We wish," Frank answered. "Harwood van Bueren is the real one responsible." Frank and Joe quickly detailed the interesting events that recently transpired.

"My brother is reading those books know," Phil said, "but I didn't know they've been completely revised. Sounds like the publishers thinks the old books don't relate to the youngsters today."

"That itself is a mystery," Joe said tapping the magazine. "I'm reading about the effort that's gone into completely re-selling the Taylor Street Gang brand. Part of its charm was that parents could pass on to their children the same books, they were that good."

"I remember Chet's book club getting us together to read the first few Taylor Street Gang books," Tony remarked.

Chet beamed. "I told you, fellows," he smirked to the Hardys. "I don't know who they think this 'Liam Donahue' is, but he has nothing on my influence!"

"Actually," Phil Cohen said, "that was the first time we all got together outside of school or sports."

"You're right," Prito replied. "My family had just moved from Naples to Bayport the previous summer. Those books really helped me with my English."

"Frank," Phil Cohen coughed, "we think Callie is hoping you'd come by the nail salon."

"Is it already time for Frank to get his nails done?" Chet quipped, slurping the last of his malt.

"They're right," Frank said ruefully. "I don't want Callie to think I'm ignoring her." He excused himself from the table. "I'll bring her a malt." He walked to place his order with the soda jerk.

"Hey, we haven't gotten ours yet, either!" Phil answered as he and Tony also followed Frank to the counter.

"We don't want Callie to think Frank is preferring The Taylor Gang over her," Chet jibed in a low voice. Joe smiled in reply as he returned to reading Scott Duffield's article. "Or Iola, too, for that matter."

Suddenly, Joe lost his smile. He rolled up _Literary Monthly_ and smacked Chet on the forearm.

"Ow," Chet moaned. "It's not a bad thing!" he said meekly.

Frank left with Callie's malt and Tony and Phil returned to the table. "There was a major incident at Barmet Bay today," Tony mentioned sitting down.

"What was it?" Joe asked curiously.

"We stopped by my father's construction office on the way here," Tony continued. "He said a car drove off the cliff behind the Pollitt house. Crashed through the fence at the end of Bayview Road."

Chet whistled. "D-did anyone…"

Tony shook his head. "My father heard whoever was in it dove out before it crashed."

Just then Iola entered Piper's Shake Shop. Joe immediately spotted her and got up from the table.

"Hi, Iola, are you on a break from your shift?" she asked.

Iola quickly shook her head. Her face was flushed. "I just ran out to find you because of what's been happening."

"What's going on?"

"There's a delivery in the truck in the back for new Taylor Gang books. I thought it might be important to tell you."

"You bet it is. Come on, fellows!"

The four Bayporters hurried across Main Street to Sinclair's Bookstore. Mr. Sinclair was in the back where deliveries were unloaded. The telephone was ringing at the register and Iola hurried over to answer it. Joe led Chet, Tony, and Phil down an aisle to the back.

The back exit door was open and they could hear chatter. Mr. Sinclair sounded upset.

"Lately, the shipment arrival times have been very inconsistent," he was saying. "Patrons are asking where the books are and if I don't have them, they go somewhere else."

"Look, buddy," a gruff voice barked haltingly. "We're just deliverymen. Take it up with the publishing house."

Joe cocked his head and led his chums out the back door. "Hiya, Mr. Sinclair, Iola said you were out here. Need help unloading?"

"Boys, you're just in time. New Taylor Street Gang books are here," Sinclair said, shooting a look at the two gruff men before him while he signed the packing slip.

But Joe was preoccupied by something else. The delivery truck was the same beat up, dark green truck the Hardys trailed the other night down at the docks!

"Somethin' the matter with our truck, kid?" the gruff man asked, a bearded, hefty man in a woolen sweater asked.

Joe shook his head. He swallowed a retort.

"See here, this truck is older than my jalopy!" Chet exclaimed. Joe shot him a look. He did not wish to attract more attention from these men than necessary.

The other man, a round individual built not unlike Chet, growled. "I'm sure a jalopy makes _you_ popular, buddy. Maybe you can impress that pretty clerk up there with your souped up roadster!"

"That's my sister, pal!"

Both Chet and Joe's fists clenched at the bully's comment. Tony and Phil had to contain them from approaching the deliveryman.

The gruff one laughed a heartless snicker. "You got loyal patrons, Sinclair." Then he and his cohort brought down a crate from the back of the truck. Sinclair led them inside.

Joe turned to Tony, Phil, and Chet. "Go follow them and make sure they don't harm, Iola," he instructed them.

"What about you?" Chet asked.

"This is the truck from the docks. I'm going to see where it ends up."

"How?" said Phil, puzzled.

Joe quickly peered into the back of the cargo hold. "I'm going to hide out in the back." Hearing the commotion of the crate coming off the dolly, he pulled himself up. "Go back inside, now! I'll meet up with you."

Phil and Tony complied, but Chet lingered. Then he, too, heaved himself up with not a little effort into the back of the truck.

"Chet, what are you doing?" Joe hoarsely whispered.

"I'm going with you, of course," he said as he crouched down behind a crate near Joe. "This reminds me of that Taylor book, _Under the Great Lakes_ …"

"Shh!" Joe hissed.

Outside, they heard the two deliverymen emerge from the bookstore. "Sinclair is really getting on my nerves," the gruff one was saying. "Remind me to tell the boss to keep a lookout. Especially with these nosy kids around Bayport."

"One more stop and then we're done for the day, partner. I'm starved as it is," the portly one said.

"No surprise there. Now hurry up and get going."

They hoisted the dolly up into the hold and shut the door. Joe and Chet heard it lock. Now they were enclosed in utter blackness inside the truck.

Moments later, the truck's engine coughed to life and it rumbled away. A tinge of thrill and fright ran through the boys. _Where was the truck going?_


	7. Chapter VI Caught

CHAPTER VI

 _CAUGHT_

"How long has it been?" Chat asked above the roar of the truck. The two boys bounced along in the cargo hold as the truck's tires rumbled over the Bayport roads.

"About fifteen minutes I reckon," Joe replied. "But we haven't been moving very fast. I think we might be going to make another delivery."

"What will we do if they take out all these crates?" Chet asked, worried. There were about six left in the truck.

"We'll have to give it our best shot against those men," Joe answered.

"Are you kidding? Did you see the size of those guys?" Chet was incredulous at the thought of going toe-to-toe with the bad-tempered deliverymen. Then he remembered their dig against his sister, and he clenched his fists.

A few moments later, Joe and Chet could feel the truck make a wide turn. The driver then changed gears and slowly reversed the truck.

"We're backing up somewhere," Joe observed. "Probably about to make another delivery. Keep quiet, and stay low!"

The driver put the truck in park and shut off the engine. Joe and Chet heard both driver and passenger doors open and shut. The voices of the men grew louder as they approached the rear door.

The release bar was lifted and the door rolled up, light splashing in to the cab, though it had grown darker outside.

"All right, get up in there, Townsend," the gruff one, Kilbride, ordered. "Last stop before grub back at headquarters."

Townsend groaned as he climbed up. "How many at this store?"

"Just the one. And make it snappy, will ya, Townsend? Want to get out of Bayport before nightfall. Those kids are getting suspicious. Hopefully Monroe got the job done with that Hardy sedan."

Townsend loaded up a crate onto the dolly as Kilbride laid out the ramp. "What about these other here, Kilbride? The ones in the back?" Kilbride started to walk back to the crates Joe and Chet were desperately crouched behind.

"Leave 'em. Guess they're part of the burn. Wish I was at a clobby joint instead of that thing tonight."

Then the boys heard the men go inside of the building to make the delivery of books. "Joe," Chet panted, "This is too much. These guys don't seem like normal deliverymen to me! And what was he implying about this Monroe?"

Joe gritted his teeth. "It means they tried to oust Dad. Steady yourself, Chet. But I know what you mean. There isn't even a brand name on the outside of this old rundown truck."

"What's your plan for when we get to wherever we're going?"

"Seems like they may be heading back to their base," Joe reckoned. "We have to stay on this, Chet. Something's going on with this and it might be the missing clue to the location of Dad's espionage ring!"

Suddenly, the complaining voices of Kilbride and Townsend returned. Townsend was heaving the dolly into the cargo hold. "Come _on_ ," he whined, "Let's get out of here. Can't stand this town's daintiness."

"Big word there, Kilbride. Didn't take you for a scholar."

"Hey, I read," protested Kilbride. "Maybe you should, too, Townsend. The boss will have bigger jobs for you if you did. Now let's get back before he gives us an earful for being late."

With that, the door slammed shut, again darkening Joe and Chet's vision. The truck was off again a moment later.

After nearly an hour, Joe was impatient, and nervous. His darting eyes continually fell on the crates left in the truck. "What did Kilbride mean about 'burning,' I wonder?"

"Is it code for something?" Chet asked. Then his stomach loudly rumbled. "I'm sorry, Joe," he apologized, "but when I'm nervous I'm even more hungry than normal."

Joe had been studying the design of the wooden crates. He removed his pocketknife and cut the elastic band around the crates.

"Joe, y-you're…what are you doing? Maybe it's cargo from an entirely different company."

"I doubt it. Chet, I have to see what's inside. It could be a key to their motive. Give me a hand; we have to be quiet."

They broke open the top of the crate. "More books," he said, feeling around inside.

Chet shrugged. "Just more Taylor Gang books."

Joe pulled out one book and held it near to a shaft of light in the corner of a truck. "Look, Chet," he beckoned to his plump friend. Joe held up the book cover.

Chet leaned over, squinting. " _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ ," he read out loud. He looked at Joe. Together, they said in tandem, "Burning."

At that moment, the truck slowed to a halt.

"Quick, back in the crate!" Chet urged. Joe did not expect such an abrupt stop. He heard the doors shut and the crunching of Townsend and Kilbride's feet on gravel. Just as he and Chet placed the wooden lid on top of the crate, the door rolled open. It was now nighttime.

Stooping behind the crates, Chet and Joe dared not squirm, as fatigued and cramped as they were.

"Kilbride, aren't we getting these out now?" Townsend asked.

"I don't know why you opened that now," Kilbride replied, irritated. "We'll get it after supper. I told you we're late as it is."

Mumbling to himself, Townsend followed Kilbride. Their footsteps on the gravel road gradually faded. Joe motioned to Chet to stay put awhile longer. The two silently waited in the back of the truck for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, Joe dared to inch away from out of the corner and carefully tiptoed towards the open door Townsend left open. He shifted along the side of the truck, peering out only a little to see where they were.

They appeared to be in a secluded, wooded area. The gravel road ended where the truck was parked, in an open field. Joe thought he could make out a part of the field where a fire had been built. There seemed to be no sign of human activity.

"You can come out, Chet," Joe called softly. "But be careful."

Longing to stretch his legs, Chet quickly complied. Joe jumped down off the truck, followed by Chet.

"Recognize this place?" Joe asked.

Chet glanced around and up at the trees, backlit by the full moon, their leaves starting to bloom again. "Well, I see some hills over there," he pointed out. "Figure we're south of Willowville. Hixon, maybe? I really don't know, Joe. But wherever we are, everyone else is probably worried about us, missing meal time and all."

"If we're near Hixon, we can get to the train station. But we have to find out where Kilbride and Townsend went. This road must lead to some place."

The boys sluggishly followed the gravel road, but just off it, along overgrown weeds, wet from a recent rain. Ahead, two headlights appeared. A car rolled slowly toward them.

"Down, Chet!" Joe ordered as the two hugged the damp ground. The vehicle, moving slowly, passed them as its tires crunched the gravel underneath. Again, Joe waited to move until he could no longer hear the vehicle.

"We have to move quicker, come on!" he urged his tired friend.

As the road sloped upwards, Chet and Joe were on an incline. After a quarter of a mile the road forked. They stopped, Chet panting.

In the middle was a pond. To the left, they could see lights of a town a couple miles away. To the right, the lonely road snaked up to a residence, a sprawling ranch, isolated in the hilly landscape. Most of its windows were lit.

"There," Joe pointed. "That's where they are. I'm sure of it."

Chet sighed. "I'm missing pulled pork for this, Joe. And Iola was hoping you'd join us. I'll have to tell her you prefer hiding in trucks to the middle of nowhere. Of course, she'll be quite disappointed to hear that."

Joe smiled as he searched the fork in the road. "No street sign. Let's see if we can find an address or some kind of marker. This _has_ to be the headquarters for the spy ring!"

While the road curved upwards towards the ranch, Joe and Chet determined the best way would be to follow the path along the pond. They crossed the road and crouched low as they descended a short embankment to the pond's edge. The cloudy night smudged the moonlight, and with the residence momentarily out of view and still a ways up the road, the darkness proved a major obstacle for the boys.

"What kind of animals live in a pond, Chet?" Joe asked, hoping to lighten the mood. He was beginning to think this whole odyssey was a wild goose chase.

"Oh, there's your usual assortment of frogs, and small fish, naturally, and of course, turtles…"

Suddenly, somewhere in the pond a large splashing sound sent ripples throughout the water. Another splash followed. A third a moment later. Chet and Joe froze.

"And what kind of animals make those kinds of splashes?" Joe murmured.

"Joe, look up ahead!" Chet whispered as he pointed over Joe's shoulder to where someone lit a match, as if lighting a cigarette. Then it went out. Keeping their eyes in that direction, the boys waited to see more activity. The splashing continued.

"Whoever it is, they're skipping stones!" Joe hoarsed.

At that moment, the moonlight burst through a sliver in the clouds. Joe and Chet detected three bodies standing near the pond. They were laughing at something.

Speaking loudly above the laughter, one said, "That Bayport detective thinks he's on to us but he has no idea. He sure has to be rattled after today's fireball!"

Chet gripped Joe's shoulder. "The crash down at the cliff that Tony was talking about!" Joe nodded tersely.

"Mr. Orangethorpe isn't happy he survived though, genius," another retorted. "Now there are those Bayport brats he wants us to turn."

Joe was racking his brain thinking of how he knew the name Orangethorpe. His concentration was distracted when he became privy of something wrong behind him.

"Chet?" Joe turned around. There, he saw Chet Morton standing frozen like a statue. A snake was winding his way up his leg!

"Don't move, Chet," Joe advised, as he studied the hissing creature.

"What do you think I'm doing?!" Chet pouted.

"Easy," Joe said as he carefully inched closer. By now, Chet's bulbous nose was saturated with sweat. "It's just a water snake, Chet," he said.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

In an instant, Joe grabbed a portion of the snake, twisting it away from the round boy. It snapped off Morton's pant leg. Joe immediately heaved it, but made the mistake of throwing it towards the water. It crashed into the pond.

"What was that? Over there; did you hear that?" a voice rang out from down the embankment.

Flashlights were pointed in the direction of Joe and Chet.

"There're two people over there!" one exclaimed. "After them!"

"Go back, Chet, hurry!"

The two dashed back towards the direction they came as the three figures bounded towards them, flashlights shaking as they gave chase.

"We need to get up to the road," Joe ordered. "Let's go up here!"

Joe led the way as he charged up the short hill to the fork. If they could get to the gravel road they can disappear into the high brush.

Yet upon reaching the top, now it was Joe's turn to freeze. Chet, a few feet behind, nearly collided into him.

"Umph—why did you stop?" Then, Chet looked out at the sight before him. His panting ceased as he lost his breath.

There on the road before Chet and Joe was a group of about 25 men holding blazing torches. They all stared back in total silence at the two frantic and dazed boys.

And they did not look happy.


	8. Chapter VII The Burning of Liam Donahue

CHAPTER VII

 _The Burning of Liam Donahue_

Fear tore through Joe and Chet, paralyzing them from making any movement. So stunned were they to see the sight before them they didn't think to move. Besides, any attempt to escape was pointless.

In moments, those who had given chase, three young men around Joe and Chet's ages, rounded them up. Neither of the Bayporters recognized them.

"Say, I know you," a voice growled from the cluster. Kilbride sauntered towards Chet and Joe, the torch he bore flickering odd shadows onto his menacing face.

"So you thought you can be detectives sneaking out here," he snorted a chuckle. "Clever boys. But like your father, not clever enough."

Chet stole a look at Joe. But his blond younger friend remained stoic, staring straight at Kilbride.

The ruffian leader who stole the Hardys bicycle appeared. "Comrade Kilbride, I have seen this one with his brother snooping around. Even after all the warnings."

Joe made a mental note of the way the boy addressed Kilbride.

"You've done well, young solider. You brought at least one here," Kilbride answered him. The boy grinned widely, proud at the affirmation. Then he glared at Joe. Still, Joe remained expressionless.

"This has turned out to be bigger break than we could have hoped," Kilbride continued. "Hey, Dougherty," Kilbride called out to someone in the group, "we have here one of the Hardys. The other is their fat friend. What do you want to do with them?"

Dougherty, apparently someone with more authority than Kilbride, was at the front of the group. They seemed to be headed to the gravel road off the main drag.

"Tie them up," Dougherty ordered nonchalantly. "We'll wait for further instructions."

The boys from the pond proceeded to tie Joe and Chet's hands behind their backs. As they did so, Joe shouted in a loud but calm voice, " _Huck Finn_!"

Dougherty and others stopped and deliberately turned back to face Joe. Chet's mouth dropped before he quickly closed it.

Dougherty studied the brave 17-year-old for a moment, before he smiled, a smile out of one corner of his mouth. Finally, after what seemed like an interminable period, he said, "Bring them along."

Joe and Chet were pushed along rudely. The group of men proceeded to walk along the gravel path. Eventually, they came to the field where the delivery truck was parked.

The group automatically formed a near complete circle in the open space, as if they had done so numerous times in the past. Chet and Joe were positioned at the end. They watched as some men hoisted down the crates from the truck. Meanwhile, others gathered wood and branches. They arranged the items in the center of the circle. Matches were lit, and in a short time a fire was started.

At that time, a vehicle pulled into view, slowly coming to a stop just before the circle. The driver hastily got it, a stooping, short man who hurried over to the passenger door. He opened it, head downcast, and a moment later a dignified-looking older man in three-piece suit, hat, and long overcoat emerged.

He seemed to be in his 70s and yet stood upright, his bony, angular features setting him apart from the dress and demeanors of those in the circle. The driver handed him a cane, and the man made his way into the circle. He paid no attention to the captured Joe and Chet. When he passed, Chet detected the man sporting a razor thin mustache and smelled cologne.

He dramatically walked to the center of the circle, right up to where the small fire blazed. All eyes on him, he kept his eyes on the flames. All that could be heard was the continual crackle of the fire. At length, he spoke.

"People fight with weapons," he began in a cadence that sounded vaguely British, "we fight with words."

The men around him roared in approval. He quieted them down before continuing, "But there is even a war of words. You yourselves are discovering that. And," he paused for dramatic effect, "you are winning!"

Again approval went up from the crowd. "Bring on the enemies!"

A group of men, prepared for such an order, shouted in unison, "Yes, Mr. Orangethorpe!"

So that confirms it! Joe thought. That is the leader, this man named Orangethorpe.

"I don't like what's going on," Chet mumbled under his breath.

"Stay calm," Joe advised his friend.

As the crates were brought into the circle near Orangethorpe, the driver, the stopped, shifty-eyed fellow, was whispering in Orangethorpe's ear. He pointed in the direction of Chet and Joe. Orangethorpe followed the driver's finger, his eyes finally resting on the two captives.

Chet gulped. "Still want to stay calm?" he asked.

Orangethorpe then gave some direction indiscernible to Chet and Joe. The driver then relayed the message to the men who unloaded the crates by the fire.

"Book burning," Joe muttered.

"Who are these guys?" a dry-mouthed Chet bemoaned.

Kilbride was one of those fishing through the crates per the driver's instructions. Finally, he removed a handful of books, showed them to Orangethorpe who gave a slight nod. Kilbride, grinning in the dancing torchlight, approached Hardy and Morton.

"You are privileged to be witnessing a purge of the old ways," Kilbride sneered.

"No good can be coming from any of this," Chet found himself saying, then just as quickly closed his mouth.

Kilbride shot him a look. "You're the least of my concerns, Morton. But believe me our soldiers have eyes on that family farm of yours," he threatened.

This time, Chet kept quiet. But inside, his rage was boiling as he thought of his family in danger. Satisfied he silenced the loyal friend to the Hardys, Kilbride held up the books in his hand to the light.

"Recognize these?"

They were copies of the original Taylor Gang Street books, before the revisions. Joe projected indifference. "Well, since you apparently deliver for Dole & Toler, I would expect you to have in your possession their brand such as the Taylor Gang," he answered. "But those are the old ones, Kilbride. Didn't your company take them off the market?"

Kilbride's eyes popped for a moment. He quickly quelled his anger and smiled. "I deliver for The Syndicate," he growled. "And I burn the poison."

With that, Kilbride opened the front cover of the book and held it close to Joe. "Read it," he ordered.

Joe squinted. Then his own eyes popped. There in the upper corner was the name "Liam Donahue"!

"These are the books we own," he said softly. He shot a look at Kilbride. "You stole them from us! You broke into our house! What else did you take? Did you hurt anyone?"

Kilbride dismissed Joe's outrage, merely turning his back to the lad. "You'll learn," he said. "You'll learn this is all for the best."

Kilbride ambled to the fire and threw the Hardy's collection of original Taylor Street Gang books into the blaze, the ones Aunt Getrude bought for them that shaped so much of their childhood.

Then, other books followed, including _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ , _Tom Sawyer_ , _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , _Crime and Punishment_ , _Oliver Twist_ , _Moby-Dick_ , and _Last of the Mohicans_. Joe and Chet watched the conflagration with simmering ire.

Above the roar of the burning books, Orangethorpe motioned for the two young captors to be brought closer. Chet and Joe were promptly pushed into the center of the circle. All eyes fell on them again as they reluctantly inched nearer, hands still bound before them.

"They are afraid," he announced to the group. Yet we only mean for them to become enlightened. They are intelligent, and will prove useful."

Orangethorpe turned to the leader of the ruffians. "Jedediah, you will teach them."

The boy nodded. "Yes, Mr. Orangethorpe."

"But first, of course, the branding." With a quick hand motion Orangethorpe stepped aside as the young men who chased Chet and Joe along the pond grabbed ahold of each of their shoulders. Chet and Joe attempted to stifle their grip, but their hold did not budge.

Jedediah then appeared in Joe and Chet's purview holding a branding iron, its tip white and orange, slight steam emanating from it. Meanwhile, his henchman rolled up the sleeves of Joe's red jacket and Chet's Bayport High School sweater. Chet's eyes bulged with terror.

Just as Jedediah was about to go in for the brandishing, a loud, fast rumble distracted those in the field. Heads turned as a pickup wagon furiously approached the group.

"It's the Prito truck!" Joe gasped to Chet, hope in his voice.

"Kilbride, see to it!" Orangethorpe ordered. But as Kilbride and others sprung towards the careening truck, they jumped out of its way, as it hazardously pummeled over tree trunks and underbrush, crushing the crates and squishing scattered books.

Kilbride, sprawled to the ground, barked, "Stop it!"

Instantly, out of the pickup truck cargo bed leapt three athletic figures. They quickly dispatched the men who tried to take them down. As they made their way towards Chet and Joe, Chet gleefully shouted, "Biff! Phil! Frank!"

With Tony driving, the truck followed behind the Bayporters, but the rescue stalled as Biff, Phil and Frank encountered the wiry teenagers and Jedidiah's crew. Clearly, they have been in not a few fights.

Using their feet, however, Chet and Joe attempted to cut out the legs of their assailants. Their antagonizing helped their friends, and soon Biff, Phil, and Frank gained the upper hand. Fisticuffs flying, they sent Orangethorpe's men to the ground.

"Move! Now!" Frank ordered as another round of men swarmed towards them. They grabbed Chet and Joe and hoisted them up to the back of the bed.

"Go, Tony, go!" Biff shouted even as he still had yet to climb up. Prito floored the accelerator and tore through part of the bonfire, erratically circling back onto the gravel. Men chased after them. Biff hung from the side of the pickup truck. Someone grabbed ahold of his boot. As he was snatched up by the others, the boot came off, and the man clutching it fell chin first onto the gravel, the boot bouncing from his grip and disappearing into the marsh.

Orangethorpe, Kilbride, and the others watched in horror as the pickup truck flew onto the main road and down towards civilization.

Finally Orangethorpe vowed in a low voice as he watched the disappearing truck, "You have just forced us to make war, you wretches!"


	9. Chapter VIII The Vanishing

CHAPTER VIII

 _The Vanishing_

"Yowzers, friends, I thought I'd never be so happy to see you," Chet cried from the back of the speeding Prito truck, Tony at the wheel, the strange sight in the hills now safely behind them. "But I have to ask—what took you so long?"

The others laughed. So relieved to see their pals, Phil, Frank, and Biff chose this time to not to outdo Chet with another quip.

"But fellas," Chet continued, "you should have seen Joe. He stood up to those creeps with courage that, frankly," he jabbed his friend, "I didn't think he had."

"That's my brother!" Frank shouted against the wind. He could tell Joe and Chet had endured much that evening. "We won't prod you with further questions," he said. "But we can't wait to hear what you've seen!"

Joe nodded. Parched, he tried to raise his voice. It was clear he was exhausted. "I have two questions," he finally managed. "First: how did you find us?"

Phil piped up, "We followed the truck all the way after it left Sinclair's. It made one stop on Fourth Street, and then came here. Tony kept far enough back so as not to arouse suspicion."

Biff nodded. "When we saw how secluded the area was, we kept back and parked in a thicket. Then we followed you on foot. When we saw that army of men with torches capture you, we went back to the truck and came roaring in."

"Sure did," Joe nodded gratefully. "And second, where are we?"

"Hixon," Frank informed them. "Way out in the middle of nowhere."

"See?" Chet said excitedly. "I was right! I knew that's where we are!"

Now the three friends had fun in their own right. They guffawed and waved their hands in a dismissive fashion at Morton.

"He's right, fellows," Joe smiled tiredly. "He's a pretty good sleuth." Joe and Chet shook hands.

"Thank goodness spring break is next week," Chet sat back in the bouncing truck, relieved. Then immediately his expression changed. "My extra credit for Science is due tomorrow! I've forgotten!"

Joe then detailed the incident of the snake around Chet. Their pals laughed good-naturedly at their heavyset friend's predicament.

"So much for your hobby in reptiles, Chet," Biff chuckled.

"Amniotes, actually," Morton mumbled. "But enjoy the laugh, fellows. Next time you'll be the ones burned alive."

Tony reached the Morton family farm in good time. It was very late when they finally arrived, but the Morton houselights were all lit. When the truck pulled into the drive, Iola came bounding out of the front door.

Upon seeing Chet and Joe she exclaimed, "You're alive!" She threw her arms around her brother. "Oh, I was so worried." Then she gave Joe a kiss on the cheek and an embrace. Biff Hooper coughed slightly in the back.

"If this was a giant ruse Joe cooked up about Iola feeling sorry for him, well, it worked," he muttered teasingly.

"I'll see you tomorrow at school," Joe promised to Iola.

"I have off from the book shop, so I expect to hear everything!" she answered.

The Hardys, Tony, Phil, and Biff said good-night to the Mortons before driving away. Tony dropped Phil and Biff off at their own homes before finally reaching the corner of Elm and High. Joe thanked Tony profusely and then ventured inside with this brother.

Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were brewing a pot of coffee when the boys entered through the back door.

"Boys," Mrs. Hardy croaked as she fought back tears, "we have been worried sick. Where have you been?"

Joe and Frank embraced their mother assuring her they were both fine. Then they turned to face their father, a concerned and stern look on his face.

"Sorry, Dad," Frank began, "but Joe and Chet were and trouble and we had to help them out."

Mr. Hardy's face grew softer. Then Joe said, "We've found the spy ring, Dad. They're every bit as dangerous as you surmised."

Again, worry crossed Fenton and Laura's faces. "Something happened here, too, boys—" but Frank interjected before his mother could continue.

"There was a robbery here, wasn't there?" he asked as his parents registered surprise. "Our books?"

Mr. Hardy nodded. "So you know. Look, it's late," he finally said. "But it seems though you have valuable information. I'll make an exception that you can go to school late tomorrow morning, but we have to get all the details now while it is still fresh."

"We can go to school tomorrow for sure, Dad," Frank said cheerily. "As Chet said, it's the last day before the break."

"And I have to meet someone after school as it is," Joe said vaguely.

The four sat at the kitchen table as the boys eagerly consumed leftovers from supper. Joe feverishly spoke of the truck from the docks delivering new Taylor Street Gang books, about the Taylor Gang revisions and the originals in Sinclair's basement, about the strange leader, Orangethorpe, and the young ruffian referring to Kilbride as "comrade." Mr. Hardy considered that point thoughtfully.

Finally, Joe mentioned the burning of the literature classics. "Sounds occultist," Fenton remarked. He took notes to all of what Joe said, asked a few questions, then quickly told his sons about his own brush with death earlier in the day.

"A tactic conceived by this Kilbride no doubt," Frank said grimly. "He's obviously Orangethorpe's main henchman."

"Can we call in Collig and make a raid?" Joe asked.

"Unfortunately, we don't have enough concrete proof about their criminal activity—if indeed whatever they are doing _is_ criminal. How they treated you, however, has just upped the ante," the detective said. "Yet we still need to prove whatever their ultimate scheme is."

"Dad," Frank ventured cautiously, "why don't you let us and the fellows head back out to the location tomorrow after school? We won't snoop, but maybe we can get some photographs and an address, and maybe pick up any clues along the way?"

Mr. Hardy thought for a moment. "I do have to attend to insurance business about the car tomorrow," he finally admitted. "And I think it's important we round up as much information as possible on this gang. But take two cars, and don't use Tony's truck again. They may be expecting it and I don't want to endanger the Pritos."

"You bet!" the boys said in unison, thrilled their father gave them permission to pursue the investigation. "But the minute you smell trouble, get out of there and get some help! I know some officers on the Hixon Police and they will help you out."

"Thanks, Dad!" Frank beamed. "Let's talk to Phil or Jerry, maybe they'll let us use either of their sedans."

"And I guess the other will have to be the good old Queen," Joe said with a smile. "Maybe Iola will want to go?"

"Iola Morton?" Fenton raised his eyebrows. "So you finally noticed she has an interest in you, eh son?" he deadpanned.

Joe couldn't tell if his father was joking. "Well, sir…"

Frank pretended to yawn, stretching. "It's getting late…" he got up. "Big day tomorrow."

Joe looked up at his older brother, helpless. Finally, Fenton laughed. "Get to bed, young man. Enough drama for one night."

"Yes, sir!" Joe responded, relieved. "Good-night!"

The next day while Frank and Joe were at school, Fenton informed Chief Collig of the bizarre adventure the boys experienced. He shared with them the scheme for the boys to return to the site this afternoon, to pinpoint the exact location and perhaps drum up some clues. Collig assured Mr. Hardy that Hixon police shall await any distress signal.

Mr. Hardy then worked with the insurance company on the destroyed family car and obtained a temporary rental automobile. In the meantime, he employed Sam Radley to keep watch at the Hardy home. "While the boys won the upper hand the previous night," he told Radley, "the enemy has proven it will go to any extreme to rid whomever they see as threats."

"Present company included," Radley replied. Fenton nodded.

During Frank's lunch period at Bayport High, he noticed Callie exiting the library. He inquired about the progress of her research assignment for journalism school.

"Let me say first, Frank Hardy, that I'm actually surprised to see you two days in a row," she teased.

Frank tried not to blush. "What do you mean?" he lamely asked.

"I hear you and Joe are getting yourselves wrapped up in an interesting mystery. And," she continued, "you've actually given me inspiration."

"Me?" Frank asked. "How so?"

Frank walked Callie to her class as she enthusiastically described her writing project to him. Earlier in the week when she noticed Frank and Joe revisiting their memories of the Taylor Street Gang books, Callie recalled her own memories with them, and the series offshoot featuring a main character, Erin Breen, involved in her own mysteries and adventures.

"I'm looking into the popular books that shaped our childhoods," she continued. "They've influenced us in so many ways but we don't really look at them as great literature."

"That's true," Frank agreed. He quickly filled her in on Chet and Joe's travails from the previous night. "We're driving out to the place after school. Maybe you and Iola would like to come? I'm not sure how exciting it will be—or how safe it is, for that matter."

"I see her in English class. I'll ask her and let you know!" Callie replied.

After school, Callie and Iola joined Frank, Joe, Chet, and Biff Hooper outside the high school. It was agreed upon that Callie would ride with Frank and Biff in the Hooper car, and Iola with Joe and Chet in the Queen. Each group agreed that should anything dangerous transpire, the other would contact the Hixon police station.

During the trip out of Bayport, the two groups earnestly discussed the possible motive of the Syndicate. Iola brought a copy of a new Taylor Street Gang book Mr. Sinclair allowed her to loan. "According to the most recent sales," she informed Joe and her brother, "the Taylor Gang books are seeing more sales since the series started 30 years ago!"

In the Hooper mobile, Frank was catching up on Scott Duffield's long article in _Literary Monthly_. He recommended it to Callie for her writing project. "Harwood van Bueren is an unheralded literary genius," she was saying, "but everyone critically dismisses him."

Biff replied, "Say, maybe you could contact van Bueren himself? Didn't you say the books have changed beyond recognition? He might be a clue!"

Both Callie and Biff waited for Frank's reply, but he didn't answer; he was so involved in the article he hadn't been listening.

"Frank!" Callie said sharply. But Frank only looked up absent-mindedly. "Sorry," he said softly, then gazed back down at the article. "This may be just a coincidence," he continued slowly, "but I don't think so."

"What is it?" Biff asked.

"The article here talks about a Janus Orangethorpe who was Harwood van Bueren's business partner. Together they launched what they called 'The Writer's Syndicate'."

"But what do you think isn't the coincidence?" Callie asked.

Frank looked up at her. "I'm pretty sure from what Joe and Chet said the leader of that gang last night was called Orangethorpe."

"It's a pretty unique name," Biff ventured.

Frank nodded. "Let's have a little word with this Mr. Orangethorpe," he said grimly.

When the two vehicles finally reached Hixon and drove onto the secluded road that led up to the large ranch, they found themselves to be the only cars in the area.

"Pull onto the gravel road first, Biff," Frank instructed. Biff complied. As there was lingering daylight at this hour, the group took in the grounds as if for the first time. It was so secluded one would easily mistake the road for an overgrown path from a century ago.

In a short time they reached the clearing. "Here was where we rescued Chet and Joe," Biff said. "Let's see what the bonfire looks like after all those books burned."

But when the small caravan reached the field, the Bayporters exited their cars perplexed. "There's nothing here!" Chet cried.

They looked around. There was no remnant of the peculiar ritual from last night. No remnant of a bonfire, no charred pages of books, no clues of any kind, except for one, which Joe found in the marshland. "Biff's boot," he called triumphantly.

"Well, there's at least some proof we were here last night," Chet said, shooting a look at his sister. "In case you doubted us!"

"I didn't say that!" she protested.

"Let's drive up to the ranch to see if there's any life up there," Joe suggested.

"But be ready to high-tail it back to the main road if Kilbride or anyone else shows up," Frank added.

"Roger!" Chet said trotting back to the Queen.

The others laughed as they watched him. "You have a lot of confidence in your jalopy outrunning the bad guys, Chet!" Callie teased.

"Of course I do, Callie!"

Frank opened the door to Biff's car. "Lot of experience in that area, do you, Morton?"

Chet opened his mouth for a retort, but Frank emphatically shut the car door. Biff duly drove away leaving Chet speechless.

The sleuthing convoy wound up toward the ranch. But again, there was no sign of life in the property.

"It's totally abandoned!" Joe perplexed.

Frank instructed Biff to park, and Chet did the same behind them. They got out and surveyed the desolate landscape in stunned silence. Knocking at the door yielded no response.

"On the run," Joe said finally.

Frank nodded. "Readying for battle. We need to get cracking on this case before something serious happens." He quickly brought Iola, Joe, and Chet up on the possible connection between the boss, Orangethorpe, and Harwood van Bueren's business partner.

"Frank," Joe replied excitedly, "I think our best bet might be to talk to Scott Duffield, the magazine writer. He may help us learn more about this Syndicate!"

"You're all welcomed to meet back up at our house," invited Frank to the others. "I'm sure Mother will be happy to have some extra mouths at the supper table."

"Count me in!" Chet bellowed. "I sure hope your Aunt Gertrude mailed some of her peanut butter cookies. It's sure been awhile since she has sent them. Not that I'm counting."

The cars drove away from the desolate, eerily quiet ranch. It was now dusk. The pretty spring sunset had given way to foreboding clouds of dark purple and gray.

The very corner of the curtain to the main window of the ranch house peeled back. Glaring out at the departing vehicles as they disappeared down the secluded road was the stooped, shifty-eyed driver for Janus Orangethorpe.


	10. Chapter IX Atlantis Symbols

Chapter IX

 _ATLANTIS SYMBOLS_

That evening at the Hardy home on Elm and High Streets, Mrs. Hardy gladly prepared a large meal of spaghetti and meatballs for the Bayport high schoolers. No one was more pleased than Chet Morton, who helped himself to three heaping piles of pasta over the course of the meal.

While at table, Mr. Hardy set forth the significance of going up against so unruly a group as what the Syndicate appeared to be. He warned that should any of them wish to remove themselves from being involved, it would be completely understandable. Frank and Joe concurred with their father, and stressed to their friends that their own safety is paramount.

"We're with Frank and Joe on this until the end, Mr. Hardy," Biff attested. The others agreed.

After the teenagers cleaned up, put the dishes in the washer, and scrubbed out the larger kitchenware, Mr. Hardy invited the troupe out to the office in the barn to lay out a plan of attach for going forward.

"They're on the run, but it doesn't mean we're out of the woods," he explained before Frank, Joe, Chet, Biff, Iola, and Callie. "In fact, it might be even tougher now to pinpoint the Syndicate and their dealings."

"Dad, Orangethorpe is the key," Joe said firmly. "The biggest mistake those thugs did was to say his name out loud."

Having learned about Callie's research assignment, Mr. Hardy turned to her. "Callie, dig up everything you can find about Mr. Orangethorpe. Especially look at his business relationship with Harwood van Bueren."

"Sure will!" she said.

"Iola, we need to find out the identity of the young men who have been purchasing the Taylor Gang books at Sinclair's. Maybe there are other owners on Main Street who have leads. Can you ask around?"

"You bet," she replied.

"Chet, Biff, Frank, Joe, meet me tomorrow at 6:30 in the morning. I'm going to introduce you to someone I've come to trust with my life."

"B-but that's the first day of spring break!" Chet found himself uttering.

Mr. Hardy looked at the plump boy. "You didn't think I'd leave out breakfast, would you, Chet?"

"O-of course," Chet stammered, "I don't look forward to being branded by a flaming metal rod, so, 6:30 it is, Mr. Hardy!"

That night, Biff and Chet stayed late assisting Frank and Joe in tidying up their ransacked bedroom. When it finally returned to a bit of normalcy, Joe propped up against his bed headboard and read the opening of the new Taylor Gang book Iola brought him, the revised version of Book X, _Atlantis Symbols_.

"Joe, I'm beat and we need to get up early," an exhausted Frank yawned from his own bed. "I'm turning out the light."

"That's okay," his brother complied. The room went dark for a minute before Joe turned on his flashlight. He was already three chapters into the book and wanted to keep reading.

 _Atlantis Symbols_ was about the Taylor Gang involved in an undersea expedition of a sunken island believed to be the lost city of Atlantis. There they discover engravings that lead them on an adventure to find a treasure.

But the more Joe read, the more he realized it was less about the treasure than the Taylor Gang discovering a group of people who believe themselves to be the descendants of the ancient Atlanteans. These Atlanteans continue to believe that Atlantis will rise again and they will become its rulers.

It was in the eighth chapter an hour later when Joe let out a startled cry. "Frank, wake up!"

Frank stirred, bemoaning the distraction. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

"You have to listen to this," his brother urged, turning on the bedroom light.

Frank sat upright, squinting. Joe excitedly held up the book. "From page 79," he said. Then he read the following:

 _"_ _Tim, Ed, Janie and Chris decided the first clue was the location of the tomb. The area around it was overgrown and abandoned, but still something seemed terribly wrong._

 _'_ _This is what happens when ideals shrivel up,' their guide, Tomaso, was saying. 'Atlantean ideals must live forever. They transcend any law or policy'."_

"A little odd," Frank admitted.

"I'm just setting the stage with that," Joe said. "They go into the tomb, which leads into an underground tunnel."

"Then what happens?" Frank asked, curious.

Joe continued:

 _"_ _Ahead they could see flickering shadows of light along the dampened cavern. Tomaso had warned them but they could not believe their eyes when they finally inched forward. There the tunnel opened and below the Taylor Gang looked out at the sight before them: A circle of Atlanteans holding torches chanted before a bonfire."_

Frank leaned forward, astonished. "Just like the other night," he gasped.

Joe nodded. "Exactly. But here's the twist: the Atlanteans welcome the Taylor Gang into the circle and ordain them as fellow Atlanteans, ritualistically passing on their knowledge to them for them to bring it back to the world of men."

Frank shook his head. "So you think it's not a coincidence what we saw and this scene in the book?"

"I think it's related, yes. Of course, I don't necessarily mean to suggest the Orangethorpe people are Atlanteans, but maybe…" he trailed off, wondering if he should voice his thought.

But Frank answered it himself. "Either they knew about the scene in the book and were recreating it, or…"

"Harwood van Bueren was somewhere in that group at the bonfire," Joe concluded.

Frank grasped the implication for a moment. "Harwood van Bueren himself might be sending messages through these books."

By the time they both fell asleep it was very late, but neither could wrestle from their minds the link between the scene in the book and the scene they encountered at the now abandoned ranch outside Hixon.

The possibility that the beloved author Harwood van Bueren was somehow mixed up in the syndicate was too much on their minds for the Hardys to get solid sleep. They agreed to keep their theory to themselves for the time being.

The next morning was a crisp, spring Saturday dawn. Biff and Chet met the Hardys for a thoroughly delicious breakfast of omelets before setting out. Mr. Hardy demurred on where exactly they would be going.

After breakfast, Biff and Chet followed Mr. Hardy's rented car in the Queen as they made their way out of the sleepy town.

"Boy, I sure hope we're not headed back out to that creepy occult ranch," Chet muttered.

"Actually, I think we're going right here!" Biff pointed as they pulled into the entranceway to Bayport Airfield.

Small, private planes, corresponding hangars, and a control tower dotted the expansive area, with a single airstrip painted in the middle. There was little movement at the airfield this morning, except for one individual tinkering at a blue aircraft outside a hangar. He waved at the approaching automobiles, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

Fenton approached him first, patting him on the shoulder. "How are you, Jack? How's _Skyhappy Sal_ doing today?

"Ready for a spin!" came the hearty reply.

Mr. Hardy said, "Boys, I'd like you to meet Jack Wayne. You met Frank and Joe before, you might recall."

"Of course," he answered.

"Hi Mr. Wayne," Frank greeted the pilot.

"Jack, please," he replied. The others promptly introduced themselves.

"Still thinking about that pilot license?" he asked Frank and Joe with a grin.

"If we had more time to practice!" Joe responded.

"Jack's kind enough to meet us this morning so you can get more acquainted with the sky," Mr. Hardy said. Glancing at Biff and Chet he added, "All of you." Biff and Chet exchanged dumbfounded glances.

"I met Jack a few years ago when we first moved to Bayport," Mr. Hardy continued. "Since then I've hired Jack on a number of cases and chartered _Skyhappy Sal_ , most recently to the Yucatán."

Then Mr. Hardy turned to Jack. "Jack, they're all yours."

"Ok, then," Jack Wayne said. "Boys, strap in."

Surprised, the boys excitedly climbed into the silver-winged aircraft and buckled up. Frank took the co-pilot position next to Jack. The others crawled into the rear.

Within moments, Skyhappy Sal taxied to the runaway, and was away into the air, swiftly above Bayport and the dark grey of the sprawling ocean.

For the next 45 minutes, Jack circled the city, ascending and descending to various heights. Having had previous cockpit experience, Frank assisted Jack with the necessary controls.

Through the earpieces that each wore, Jack communicated things to watch for when flying, such as fuel tank, altitude, weather, and any discernible aircraft that might be in view. Frank and Joe were particularly intrigued at the nuances of flying, as they had been hoping to spend more time in the air. Biff and Chet, having never been in a private plane before, enjoyed the experience.

When they returned to the airfield, they found Mr. Hardy waiting for them. "Well, how was it?" he asked.

"Great!" Joe exclaimed. "Dad," he asked, "are you wanting us to get certified?"

"In due time," his father replied. "But for now, let's let Jack handle that aspect of flying."

The four boys looked at each other, confused. Mr. Hardy and Jack laughed.

"I know you're wondering what you are doing here," Mr. Hardy continued. "But I wanted you to get the jitters out now."

"J-jitters?" Chet asked.

Mr. Hardy nodded. "I've already spoken with your parents, Biff, and Chet."

"What did I do?" Biff asked innocently.

"Not like that," the Hardy father answered him. "But they gave me their consent, provided I'll be with you. In fact, I'll be able to meet up with you tonight. But for now, you have the rest of the day to pack."

"What's going on, Dad?" Frank asked.

"You're going to New York to continue the investigation of the Syndicate," Fenton replied flatly. "And Jack's flying you there this afternoon."


	11. Chapter X Skyscraper City

Chapter X

 _SKYSCRAPER CITY_

"Here we are, fellows," pilot Jack Wayne announced to his passengers, "the Big Apple."

For as grown up as Frank, Joe, Biff, and Chet felt as they flew in _Skyhappy Sal_ , they could not help but press their noses to gaze at the wonders of human achievement stretching below them. All had been to New York City while growing up, but none of the boys ever saw the view from above.

Thanks to Mr. Hardy arranging for the boys to meet with writer Scott Duffield, they were doubly excited to be headed to the city helping his investigation. Rising skyscrapers piercing the sky were so close Chet had visions of jumping from the plane, landing on the tip of a building, and jumping from one setback to another until he reached the bottom.

The flight from the Bayport Airfield to the new Flushing Airport in Queens only took less than thirty minutes. Jack would be continuing on into the Great Lakes region and Mr. Hardy would be joining them the next day. The four thanked Jack for his generosity before hopping on the streetcar leaving Flushing.

"As you know, gents, Dad won't be joining us until tomorrow," Frank explained when they had settled in their seats on the streetcar. "Let's check into the motel and see if we can get over to the _Literary Monthly_ office before closing time."

Joe leaned forward, indicating the others to do the same. "I think there's a tail on us," he whispered. "Don't look now. Fellow in the back right reading the _Herald Tribune_. I think I remember him from the night at the ranch."

"Four against one," Biff said. "We'll get him if he makes any sudden moves."

The four rode mostly in silence taking the sights before them until they reached Long Island City. They checked into a modest motel with adjoining rooms before catching the East River Ferry to Manhattan. There was no sight of the man from the streetcar.

"I must be nervous," Joe admitted. "How would he even know we were in New York?"

"Still, let's stay on our guard," Frank advised.

On 5th Avenue, the Bayporters found the building where the magazine offices of _Literary Monthly_ were housed. A guard stopped them as they entered.

"Hold on there," the hefty, middle-aged security officer with puffy cheeks and curly hair said upon seeing the four boys. "What's the purpose of yer visit?"

"We have an appointment at _Literary Monthly_ ," Joe said calmly. "We set it up yesterday with the secretary, Ms. Brisbane."

The guard cocked his head suspiciously. "Ya went through the trouble of arrangin' an appointment, eh?"

They nodded. Frank glanced up at the clock above the guard desk. The office would be closing soon, he thought. Why the interrogation?

"Typically your kind just barge right on in," he continued, unchanging in his suspicious stare.

"Our kind?" Biff asked.

The guard directed his stare now to Biff. "That's what I said," he replied gamely.

"Excuse me, Officer…" Frank glanced at the guard's name badge, "Pharis. You obviously have had some run-ins with possibly some other people you might be associating us with them?"

Pharis nodded. "That's right. A bunch o' ruffians, I call them. Trying to stir up trouble with the folks at the magazine. Especially with the writer, Scott Duffield."

The Bayporters exchanged glances. Was Officer Pharis referring to the rebellious gang they have been encountering?

"Well, we can assure you, Officer," Joe replied, "we are not them. In fact, we are working on a case with our father, a detective, in order to stop them."

"You say your father's a detective?" Pharis asked, curious.

Frank nodded. "Fenton Hardy. He's a former New York police detective."

Pharis' eyes widened. "Why didn't you say so? I knew Fenton from when I was on the force. Tell him I said 'hello'." Pharis waved on the boys. "Get on up to the eighth floor. Don't want to be late for your appointment, now."

Relieved, the boys walked at a steady clip to the elevator. But their relief was only short-lived. When they introduced themselves to Ms. Brisbane at the lobby of _Literary Monthly_ on the eighth floor, they were disappointed to find out Scott Duffield was not available.

"I'm terribly sorry," Ms. Brisbane was saying, "but Mr. Duffield is on assignment."

"W-when do you expect him back?" Joe asked, disappointed.

"I really can't say," Ms. Brisbane replied, checking a daily planner. "He left late the other evening and hasn't phoned in since."

"Is there an editor or supervisor we can speak with about his whereabouts?" Frank queried.

Ms. Brisbane was slightly taken aback by both the persistence and professionalism of the young men. "Why, I'm not sure. Perhaps…"

At that moment, a stern executive in a gray suit carrying a large manuscript walked over to the desk. "Is everything all right, Ms. Brisbane?"

Now Ms. Brisbane became even more flustered. "Certainly, Mr. Sorma. However, these boys had an appointment arranged to see Mr. Duffield but he is on assignment."

Mr. Sorma's eyes narrowed as he studied them. "You're here to see Duffield? For what purpose?"

"We're trying to thwart the Syndicate!" Chet blurted.

"Chet—" Frank shot him a look. "What my friend means to say, Mr. Sorma, is that we are aiding in an investigation into a suspicious group that has been active in and around our city, Bayport."

"Bayport? I see. So this is about the Taylor Gang books?"

Joe's eyes brightened. "Could you spare a few minutes of your time, Mr. Sorma?"

Sorma sighed and looked at his watch. "Five minutes. Follow me." He led them to his office, a corner office with a grand view of midtown Manhattan.

When he closed the door, he studied them again. "What do you know?"

Frank spoke. "We've read Mr. Duffield's article about the revisions to the Taylor Gang books. We've tried contacting Dole & Toler to learn about why those revisions occurred, but we have not gotten through to anybody."

Joe took it from there. "We have reason to believe Mr. Janus Orangethorpe may be involved in a strange occult that's been terrorizing not only us, but my father."

"You're Fenton Hardy's sons? I heard about the attempt on his life in Bayport," Sorma related. "Scott Duffield has been under threats, too. Orangethorpe has gone mad. Wouldn't also be surprised if you were followed here."

"We think we were," Biff said.

"May I ask, Mr. Sorma, where Mr. Duffield is at present?" Frank asked.

"He's pursuing a lead related to Orangethrope," Mr. Sorma replied, "into Canada."

Frank and Joe shot each other a knowing look. They both instantly remembered the cargo ship that delivered the crates of books came from the Hudson Bay.

There was a knock at the door. Sorma waved in a reporter in his mid-20s, dressed in a blue sweater and khakis with a pencil behind his ear. "Excuse me, Mr. Sorma?"

"Yes, Frank, what is it?"

"I've finished the galleys of the manuscript; would you like to review them?" the young journalist asked.

"No, take it down to printing."

"Ok." He gave a friendly nod to the Bayporters as he closed the door.

"One of our up and coming staff writers," Sorma explained. "Now where was I?"

"Hudson Bay," Joe prompted.

Sorma nodded. "Yes, indeed," he said. "I warned Duff about venturing up there alone, but he said he was close to a scoop. A major scoop."

"So he gave no explanation?" Frank Hardy pressed.

"No, he was in quite a rush. He promised he would send me copy by now, but I still have yet to receive it."

Perturbed, the boys thanked the editor for his time. They walked out into the fading spring sunlight, the towering buildings casting chilly shadows onto 5th Avenue as they huddled together. Chet eyed a nearby hot dog stand.

"So," Biff was the first to speak, "What do we do now?"

"Let's head over to the Dole & Toler office and see if we can find someone willing to speak with us about their publishing the revisions of the Taylor Gang," Frank suggested.

But while Dole & Toler Publishing was not far from _Literary Monthly_ on 5th Avenue, they were not permitted entry to the building, as the offices were just about closed. The kind, elderly secretary also told them that one could only make an appointment, as past experiences proved that any stranger might walk in to the publisher and demand their book be immediately published.

The boys laughed at the image, but were again no less disappointed. So far, their New York excursion was not proving to be fruitful. They appealed to Chet's desire to get some grub, as they were all hungry.

After leaving the cheap Chinese restaurant, they began their walk towards the ferry. Subtly, Frank nudged his brother.

"Joe," he whispered, "Recognize that man across the street?"

Joe casually glanced over. A man in a fedora and overcoat was lurking back, hands thrust in his pocket, is head downcast, but his furtive glances in their direction indicated they had a tail.

"No," Joe responded, "But he sure seems mighty interested in us."

"We need to lose him," Frank said. "We can't let him know where we're staying tonight."

Frank subtly motioned to Bill and Chet, who were walking behind him, to catch up. "Fellas," Frank said, "We need to split up, Biff and Chet, Joe and I. Let's all meet back at the motel, but make sure you're not followed."

They silently agreed and a moment later, Frank and Joe abruptly turned and briskly walked in the opposite direction. "Look," Joe whispered excitedly, "He doesn't know what to do!"

The tail across the street was momentarily confused when the four broke up. He halted, not sure which pair to follow, then settled on the Hardys.

"Ok," Frank said, "He's on us. Let's lose him!" Instantly, Frank and Joe darted down the nearest alley, dashing through steam emanating from a manhole. The tail gave chase, braving the busy street as his overcoat tails fluttered in the breeze.

"This way!" Joe declared, trying an unlocked service door in the rear of a brick building. Frank followed.

They found themselves in a dark corridor. Unsure whether to proceed up the short steps that led to another door, they decided to try it when they heard their pursuer begin to open the door behind them.

Frank and Joe found themselves in the back stage of a concert hall. A symphony was in the middle of practicing a new work by Ottorino Respighi.

"Should we interrupt them?" Joe asked as they peeked behind the red curtain. The aged conductor was passionately guiding his orchestra. From behind them the sleuths could hear the quick steps of the pursuer closing in on them.

"We don't have a choice!" Frank declared. They darted out onto the stage, dodging the drummer, then the brass section, and bolted past the startled conductor. The pursuer did the same, tripping over a clarinet case and disrupting the pages off a music stand.

By then, Frank and Joe had dashed up an aisle to the back of the concert hall, but still they had yet to shake their chaser.

Having exited onto a busy thoroughfare, the Hardys looked around dumbfounded. Finally, Frank grabbed Joe's arm. "Come on!"

They crossed the street, sidestepping screeching roadsters and vendors carting goods on horses. "Careful, laddies!" one shouted as he yanked the reins to keep his horses in order.

But still they could not shake their tail. Reaching the other side of the street, they lumbered up a scaffold propped up by a construction crew. A new skyscraper was being erected and the crew was sitting on the edge of the steel beams eating their lunches.

With gaped mouths and holding their bologna sandwiches frozen about to take a bit, they stared at the athletic youths nimbly darting from one beam to another.

Amazingly, their pursuer also gave chase up the structure. Older and a bit heftier, the crew was further amazed at the sight at his determination and agility.

"This guy is good!" Frank called as his younger brother reached an open floor of the building. Joe instantly darted across five feet of air onto the roof the next door building! Frank could not believe his eyes!

"You're falling behind like he is, Frank!" Joe teased as he sprinted across that building's roof and jumped again onto the next one.

Frank ducked his head and charged forward, flailing his arms as he soared in the air. They continued jumping across New York buildings for an entire block. Eventually, they found a fire escape that took them down to ground level.

 _The man was right behind them!_

Frank and Joe emerged onto a one-way street. The brothers halted for a brief moment to determine their directions, but it was enough for the chasing man to gain ground.

The Hardys bolted up the street, sidestepping pedestrians. The man continued to pursue. Now the Hardys were desperately trying to find a way to lose him and running out of options. They reached a crowded intersection, forcing them to slow down.

"Blend in and keep cool," Frank advised his brother.

Seeing Frank and Joe in the throng of people waiting to cross the street, the man slowed to a curt walk. At that moment, a squealing vehicle slammed on its brakes directly in front of Frank and Joe!

"Get in!" the driver shouted. It was the security guard from _Literary Monthly_ , Officer Pharis!

Stunned, the man was helpless as he saw Frank and Joe dart into the back of the sedan just as it peeled away. He removed his fedora and threw it down on the ground in disgust.

In the speeding car, Frank and Joe noticed a passenger riding with Pharis, a 30-something, red-haired man. He appeared flustered as he scribbled with a pencil onto a notepad.

"Thanks, Officer Pharis," Frank breathlessly gasped, "We were having a hard time losing that tail!"

"I noticed him following you when you left the building. Boys, meet Scott Duffield."

Frank and Joe were amazed to find the redhead to be Scott Duffield.

"Hello Frank, hello Joe," he greeted them, "Sorry I missed you earlier."

"We heard you left for Canada in a jiffy," Joe related.

"Just got back," Duffield said. Then his face clouded. "I know you said from our phone call you're looking into what's going on with the Taylor Gang books. I'm afraid I have bad news."

"What is it?" Frank asked.

"Harwood van Bueren has been kidnapped!"


	12. Chapter XI Aggressive Expansion

CHAPTER XI

 _AGGRESSIVE EXPANSION_

"What?!" Frank and Joe exclaimed simultaneously.

"Stay down," Officer Pharis interjected. "We may be followed." The

Hardys complied, pivoting downwards so that their heads remained hidden from view.

The four kept quiet for a few tense moments as Pharis expertly navigated the New York City traffic, his eyes frequently darting to his rearview mirror. A gray sedan had picked up the man tailing Frank and Joe and was keeping close to the Pharis vehicle.

"I'm pretty sure that's Kilbride and his crew from the book burning, Frank," Joe said in a low voice.

Finally, Pharis took a hard right turn so quickly that the driver of the trailing car did not have time to act. The momentum of the vehicle carried him forward. Kilbride only glared at the quickly receding car as it sped away.

"I think we're in the clear," Pharis finally said, and the Hardys sat up. They glanced out the backseat window and did not see anyone following. "I'll drop you at the ferry."

"Thanks, Officer Pharis," Joe said. "But Mr. Duffield, what's this about Harwood van Bueren being kidnapped?"

"I'm trying to get it all down myself…are you Frank or Joe?" Duffield asked.

Joe introduced himself and Frank. Scott Duffield then related his bizarre adventure into the Hudson Bay territory. "Your father was in touch with our office and clued us in that his sons were making headway on a potential espionage case related to the books of Harwood van Bueren."

"That's right," Frank nodded quickly, describing the beat-up delivery truck and the incident at the Hixon ranch that was abandoned the next day. "What makes you think Harwood van Bueren has been kidnapped, Mr. Duffield?" the oldest Hardy prodded.

"Because I saw for myself," Duffield quaked. "And I'm trying to get it all down, but I'm afraid for my life!"

For as much as Frank and Joe wanted to glean information from Duffield, they could see he was troubled by what he encountered in the Hudson Bay.

"All I can say right now," Duffield finally said, "is that Dole & Toler Publishers have no idea what kind of people are now producing the most influential juvenile literature books in the world." Frank and Joe exchanged glances.

Security Officer Pharis dropped the Hardys at the ferry just as it was leaving. They were thrilled to find Biff and Chet on the same transport. Fortunately, Biff and Chet were not followed. The other passengers did not seem suspicious. "Let's wait until we're in private to talk further," Frank advised.

The chums reached the motel and were stopped by the porter at the front desk. "Which one o' you lads is Hardy?"

"We both are," Joe answered, gesturing to his brother.

"Telegram for ya," the hefty porter replied, tossing a folded up note across the desk. Joe reached for it and went to open it, but Frank put a hand on his arm. "Wait," he said.

The four retired to the Hardy room. There they opened the letter. "It's from Dad!" Joe announced. He read it aloud: _"Sons, You must return immediately for your own safety. Ike Harrity is arranging a special ferry departure from NYC at 7PM. Jack Wayne & I are bound for Manitoba – FH"_

Chet whistled, "Quebec?"

Biff asked, "Is it genuine?"

"Let's call the house and see," Frank responded. As there was no phone in the motel room, he and Joe went downstairs to the porter's desk. Taking the stairs two at a time, Joe breathlessly said, "Frank, Manitoba—that's the Hudson Bay!"

Frank nodded but motioned to keep quiet as they were in public.

They reached the porter and inquired about the use of the phone. "Sorry," he said, "it ain't workin'." He offered no further explanation.

A passing police siren sounded outside. The brothers felt immediately wary that their staying at the motel was in peril. They hastened back up to the room.

"Let's take the cable at face value," Frank suggested, and the others agreed. They quickly grabbed their bags, paid their bills, and checked out. The porter eyed them over his bifocals as they left.

Under nightfall, they hurried to the dock. Just as the telegram stated, a ferry captained by Ike Harrity, the longtime steward of the Bayport Maritime Ferry, awaited them. Though long retired, Harrity occasionally commandeered vessels on an as needed basis. He had known the Hardys since their childhood and in this case gladly supplied a small vessel typically reserved for relief efforts.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Harrity?" Chet asked when the ferry safely departed the port. The boys were invited to join the captain at the helm.

"Your father notified me that he believed you to be in danger, and I was glad to help out," the crusty old seaman said to Frank and Joe. "You know, I'm more than just a ticket taker," he said with a toothless grin.

"Did our father mention his own plans?" Joe asked hopefully.

"Only that Jack Wayne was dropping him off and returning to Bayport," Harrity replied. "I have to say, son, I'm afraid Bayport itself may come under attack soon."

"What do you mean?" Biff asked, wide-eyed.

"There's been a revolt down in Hixon tonight. The whole village has gone mad. City government has undergone a coup of some sorts, or so is the word."

"Good night!" Frank exclaimed. The four boys looked at each other in bewilderment.

"Can't the police do anything? Can't the governor declare a state of emergency, perhaps?" Joe demanded.

Harrity shrugged. "Nothing's clear. As you know, Hixon's a small place. It will take time for details to develop."

"So that crew never did get out of town," Chet finally said. "They were just waiting for the right moment to strike again."

"Dad might be headed for a trap when he gets to Canada!" Joe exclaimed. "We have to get in touch with Scott Duffield again. He _has_ to tell us what he knows."

Frank nodded. "Do we know who's responsible for the Hixon coup, Mr. Harrity?"

"Actually, from what I've gathered," he answered, "It was a couple of kids who stormed the village center. Couldn't be any older than you. They've been able to withstand the police all night so far."

Joe gritted his teeth. "We know exactly who you're talking about, Captain. Jedediah and his crew."

"I feel a bit responsible for their behavior," Frank lamented.

"What do you mean?" asked Chet.

"There's been plenty of times when we could have stopped them, if we tracked them hard enough, caught them in the act! They were going to torture you and Joe! And we did nothing!"

"Now they'll come to Bayport," Joe said grimly.

"Worse than that I'm afraid, Joe," Harrity said.

"In what way?"

Harrity gave a faint smile, but the veil of sadness on his face remained. "I'm doing this as a favor to Fenton. But the company said I can't be out manning vessels anymore."

"Why not?" Chet cut in. "You're a war hero!"

Harrity shook his head. "I was already too old then, too, young Morton," Harrity continued. "The company doesn't want to put me completely out to pasture so they're placing me at the ticket gate for good. 'Where I belong' as they say."

"We're sorry to hear you don't feel appreciated, Mr. Harrity," Frank said. "But we're sure glad you are helping Dad out by getting us back to Bayport safely."

"That's just the thing, son. I'm not taking you back to Bayport."

"Wh-what do you mean?" Chet stuttered.

"What I've been meaning to say that Bayport is on lockdown. No one can go into port or out or fly into Bayport airspace until further notice. Chief Collig's orders. The mayor's given him temporal command of the borough."

"But our families!" Biff cried.

"They'll be fine as long as they stay in the confines of the city proper," Hannity answered. "Collig and your father suspect a coup on Bayport in the manner of Hixon. This time not led by only youths."

"So where are we going?" Joe asked.

"We're going to go north, to Harpertown. From there you'll receiver further instructions."

The four took in the news quietly. A few minutes passed as Harrity commandeered the vessel. They wistfully viewed the lights of Barmet Bay in the distance as the vessel rounded it and neared the ocean waters.

"Joe," Frank spoke slowly, "I don't think Dad is telling us the whole story."

"How so?"

Frank turned to Biff. "Do you have that Taylor Gang book?"

"Sure," he replied, removing _Rules For Uprising_ from his backpack. He handed it to Frank.

Frank tapped the cover. "It's right here in front of us. Look at the title alone."

Joe nodded, picking up on Frank's train of thought. "When they burned the books they were classics, not just American classics, but classics of Western literature."

"So the revisions, the bland streamlining…" Chet said thoughtfully, "Were a c-code?"

"Or cover," Frank said. "They're the most successful series for young readers, right? What if they're starting to have their affect on people? But not as a force of good—" he began, before Joe cut him off to complete the thought. "But of evil!"

"Exactly, Joe," his brother said. "I'm now convinced either Harwood van Bueren has gone rogue along with his business partner Orangethorpe, or if we are to believe Scott Duffield, then these books are being forged under his name!"

At that moment, the vessel's horn blared. The four turned to face Harrity who dourly looked out into the blackness ahead. "We've got company," he said.

They followed his point. Ahead was a flashing red light of a ship heading right towards Ike Harrity's dinghy!


	13. Chapter XII Eastern Threat

CHAPTER XII

 _EASTERN THREAT_

As the large vessel drew closer it blared a warning sound. Harrity slid open the window. A commanding voice emanated from the ship's speakers: "United States Coast Guard! Stop for inspection. Repeat, stop for inspection!"

"The Coast Guard!" Chet whistled. "Did we do something wrong?"

"Just stay calm," Harrity advised. "They're sending out a boat to meet us."

In just a few moments, three Coast Guard officers set out on a motorboat towards Harrity's ferry. Harrity exited to the stern to greet them.

"Ahoy, there!" Harrity called with a wave.

"Identify yourself!" called one officer as they neared.

"Ike Harrity with the Bayport Maritime Ferry. Five souls on board."

"Who is with you?"

"Four chums from Bayport: the Hardys, Hooper, and Morton, and myself," Harrity responded.

Inside, Chet gulped. "Relax, Chet, the Coast Guard is just doing their job," Joe assured his friend.

"Still, they seem business," Frank replied. Biff agreed.

"Bayport is on lockdown, and all ships are on tight restrictions," the officer called. "We'll need to see all of your papers. They must indicate your nationalities. Where is your destination?"

"Harpertown," Harrity answered.

The officers briefly conversed to each other quietly. Then, the main officer called out to Harrity, "We'll escort you. Proceed to Harpertown."

"Roger!" He promptly returned inside. "Now even I don't see this every day."

"Is there trouble?" Frank asked.

"They're suspicious of us," Harrity replied. "Be ready for an interrogation at Harpertown."

For the next 15 miles, the Coast Guard vessel followed Harrity until it safely docked at the Harpertown harbor. Again, the officers approached them at the wharf in the motorboat.

Harrity tried to be friendly. "You must be on high alert?"

"With the trouble brewing in the region we're keeping an eye out for activity coming from sea," the officer related to Harrity, the Hardys, and their friends.

Another officer responded, "Papers, please."

Dutifully, all handed over their documentation. The officers returned to their motorboat to inspect them. Chet subtly wiped his sweaty palms on the side of his khakis.

Finally, the coast guard officers returned to the vessel and returned the papers to each of them.

"We apologize for seeming suspicious," one said to Frank and Joe, "We didn't realize you are Fenton Hardy's sons. He is a respected veteran and our admiral is grateful for the work he's doing on one of the most puzzling cases of this decade."

The Hardys thanked the officers and quickly shared with them their involvement in the same case.

"In fact," the officer responded, "We're keeping a watch out for possible assaults from Eastern vessels."

"Eastern vessels?" Joe asked incredulously. "Do you mean…Soviets?"

The officers looked at each other before the main one answered Joe. He nodded. "There's been an active spike in Soviet submarines in the North Atlantic and Arctic. We're patrolling the entire Eastern Seaboard keeping watch.

Another answered, "You best stay on your guard and keep watch. We've been briefed that there's been an influx of Soviet spies on United States soil."

They again thanked the Coast Guard patrol for the escort as the vessel set out. "Soviet spies!" Biff exclaimed. "You don't think…?"

"I never would have guessed it before, but I think Dad is chasing a Soviet espionage ring!" Frank declared.

Mr. Harrity directed them to the Waterside Motel right off the harbor. He assured them he would respond to Mr. Hardy's summons if needed again.

"Thanks for all your help, Captain!" Joe called and the others responded in tandem.

"Spies or no spies, I've got an empty stomach, fellows," Chet complained. They found a deli across from the motel and heartily devoured roast beef, turkey, and chicken club sandwiches washed down with fresh lemonade.

Over the delicious meal they discussed options for sending covert communiqués to both Mr. Hardy in Canada, and family on lockdown in Bayport. But they continually referred to the startling notion of Soviet activity not only in Bayport, but involved in the same espionage case they were assisting!

"I should have known right away," Frank grieved, "that first day we were at Sinclair's book shop and saw the new Taylor Gang book. The title was a dead giveaway."

" _Rules for Uprising_ ," Joe answered his brother thoughtfully.

"Exactly," Frank replied. "Nothing like the original, is it?"

He was about to keep talking when he noticed two burly men enter the deli and stare at the four Bayporters. Taking their cue from Frank, the friends innocently sipped their lemonade and soda pop drinks biding time. Chet whistled a nameless tune. The men sat down at a booth at the opposite end of the deli and seemed to pay no further attention to them.

"The question now is," Frank continued softly, "Who is behind the revisions? Who is attempting to change the thinking of its readers? Orangethorpe, or Harwood van Bueren himself?"

"Let's discuss back at the motel," Chet mumbled glancing over at the brawny men. "Those hoods give me the willies." The others complied and discreetly exited the deli.

They checked in at the front desk without trouble, again obtaining adjoining rooms. As they climbed the stairs two men in hats pulled deeply over their eyes awaited them at the top of the staircase. Frank, leading, defiantly attempted to pass them, until a thick arm reached out, blockading him.

"Excuse me!" Frank said curtly.

The man with the thick arm leaned toward Frank. "Go to your room," the faintly familiar voice directed. "We'll follow in five minutes, have the door unlocked."

Frank tried to steal a glance of the man's face but he pushed Frank along with his thick hand with enough force it propelled him forwards. The others did not question the two shadowy figures as they passed them.

Without a word, Frank unlocked the room assigned to Joe and him. He motioned for Biff and Chet to also join them. "Who was that guy?" Biff asked.

"I don't know," Frank admitted. "But be ready for a fight." They braced themselves, each positioning in a different part of the cramped, two-bed room.

Five minutes passed, and just as the man said, he entered along with his colleague. They stood at the doorway before finally removing their hats and unfurling their coat collars.

"Hey, I know you!" Joe exclaimed.

"I thought I recognized you," Frank added. "You're Mr. Sorma from _Literary Monthly_!"

"That's right, Frank," the editor-in-chief replied. "We made contact with your father and he informed us this would be your hideout for the time being."

"We need to talk to Scott Duffield to find out what he saw in Hudson Bay!" Joe said urgently.

"That's why I'm here," Sorma said calmly. "Scott Duffield has quit his post as staff writer for the magazine."

"Good night!" Chet sighed.

"Has he been harmed?" Biff asked with concern.

"I'm afraid his experience in the Hudson Bay proved too much for him to handle. We're still piecing it together ourselves, but he wanted me to be sure to contact you."

Frank cocked his head. "What do you mean 'too much for him to handle'? He had been hounding the transformation of the Taylor Gang books since the revisions."

"Actually, for quite some time before," the young man with Mr. Sorma piped up. Frank and Joe recognized him as an associate at _Literary Monthly_ whom they met earlier, Frank.

"You certainly have our attention," Joe said. "Go on."

The young reporter continued, "Scott was prepping a biographical piece about Harwood van Bueren when he discovered the startling and downright disturbing changes in the new books. He rounded up all of the original hardbacks he could. Often he had to go out of New York to track down rare ones."

"Which explains his taking out the entire inventory of Sinclair's Bookstore," Frank said in an aside to Joe, who nodded in understanding.

Sorma's underling continued, "When he saw the radically revised ones were supposedly written by van Bueren himself, he became suspicious. He began to ask himself, 'Was van Bueren really the one behind the changes?"

"But his name is on the books," Chet countered.

"Pseudonym," Mr. Sorma simply said.

"You mean he's a fake?" Biff asked, stunned.

The young writer shook his head. "No, there's a real Harwood van Bueren who most certainly has been kidnapped. But Duff believed operatives were employing Harwood van Bueren's name and property to foment…" he trailed off, hesitating.

Frank Hardy flatly answered. "Revolution?"

Sorma and his assistant exchanged glances. "How much do you boys know?" Sorma inquired.

"We know the Soviets might be involved. That an Eastern threat looms not only over Bayport but the entire Western hemisphere!" Joe cried.

"And whoever these dissidents are," his brother completed the thought, "They're using the Taylor Gang books to poison the minds of the impressionable youths who will shape the future."

For a few moments no one spoke. Then, without warning, the lights in the room went out. Joe ran to the room door but could only shake the doorknob. "We're locked from the inside!" he shouted.

Instantly, the window smashed as a figure crashed through the pane flying in holding a rope and landed in the middle of the room, knocking over a lamp. Two more figures immediately followed through the window. Reflexively the three lunged for the others. Though they were outnumbered, the intruders completely caught their opponents off guard.

A vicious brawl ensued in the darkness, lit only by the occasional flashing neon light of a dingy saloon sign next door. Finally, the fight abated when the Hardys were able to coordinate an organized effort of counter-attack.

"Let's get out o' here!" shouted one to another. Just before they exited from the windows, one of the intruders hurled a knife into a wall! Then all three managed to elude grasps as they escaped back into the street below.

Joe pulled the knife out, which had a note attached. He unfurled it: _"Elm & High won't look the same when we're done with it! Signed, The Syndicate"_

"Another threat against our house!" Frank bemoaned. "And we're all the way in Harpertown."

"I would suggest you move to another room and try to call your homes to ensure your families are safe," Mr. Sorma advised. "But my colleague here is actually going to stay on and help you. He was one of Scott's closest allies and knows more about this secret syndicate than anyone else. But I must be off."

Sorma said his good-byes and the Bayporters, following his advice, transferred to another part of the motel and registered under bogus names.

"I'll meet you fellows here in the morning," the reporter said. "I truly believe Harwood van Bueren is in the gravest danger. And I believe that as van Bueren goes, so goes the principles of liberty."

"Well, we're sure glad to meet you," Frank Hardy said, shaking the man's hand. "Mr. Sorma said your name is Frank? Like mine!"

The man smiled. "It's short for 'Franklin.' My full name is Franklin W. Dixon."


	14. Chapter XIII Callie's Investigation

CHAPTER XIII

 _CALLIE'S INVESTIGATION_

Frank, Joe, Biff and Chet continued to talk with Mr. Dixon into the early hours of the morning. The young writer shared with them that Scott Duffield had infiltrated the secret syndicate buildings off Hudson Bay. Once he found Harwood van Bueren in a prison cell, he was set on exposing the Orangethorpe association as forging the Taylor Gang books under the name of Harwood van Bueren.

"But why didn't he?" Joe questioned.

"They found him snooping around and threatened him," Dixon replied. "Scott hasn't exactly said, but it was enough for him to pull out of not only the story, but working for the magazine altogether."

Chet and Joe remembered their encounter with the branding rod. They related that incident to Dixon. "These truly sound like dangerous men," he murmured.

Finally, Dixon rose to leave. He arranged with Frank and Joe that he would be in contact if he would hear of any developments. He, too, planned on remaining near Harpertown while it was safe, working on the story. In turn, the Hardys promised they would be in touch on their end.

That night, the four chums traded shifts keeping watch in the motel room, but no intruder or disturbance occurred. At dawn, Frank visited a phone booth outside and placed a collect call into Bayport. He was relieved when his mother answered.

"Oh, Frank, we've been up all night waiting for some word from you boys," Mrs. Hardy said, agitated.

Frank apologized for not being in touch sooner, but he assured his mother that Joe, Biff, and Chet were fine. She pledged to notify the Morton and Hooper homes to relate the safety of their sons.

"Frank, one other thing."

"Yes, Mother?"

"Callie Shaw has been calling on you. She said she has found some important biographical data in her research."

"Don't say anymore, Mother. I'll try to contact Callie as soon as possible."

Frank returned to the motel room. "We have to get back to Bayport," he asserted.

"But how? The whole Barmet Bay is on lockdown," Biff countered.

"We have to get back covertly, but make it seem like we're still here in Harpertown."

"What do you propose?" Chet asked. "Wouldn't this be better discussed over breakfast?"

"Joe and I will get back to the city," Frank declared. "But you and Biff have to stay here. Go out around town today, get some grub and sight see, but keep coming back to the motel. We want to make it look like we're staying here with you."

"I have a feeling," Biff smiled nudging Chet, "That this is how life is going to be with Frank and Joe as young detectives."

"Great," Chet mumbled.

"Don't worry, Chet," Fred assured his hungry friend, "We'll ask Aunt Gertrude to make whatever you want when this is over!"

Chet's eyes brightened, but only momentarily. " _If_ this is over!"

The Hardys said good-bye to their friends and took a service exit out of the motel. Keeping a low profile and making sure they weren't followed, they quickly took side streets and back alleys until they reached the outskirts of Harpertown.

In short time, they came across the tracks of the Bayport and Coast Line Railroad. On the other side of the railway roared the Willow River. The whistle of the Bayport and Coast was faintly heard from the north.

"It's coming," Joe said. "It's the only way we can get back to Bayport fast enough."

"Joe," Frank interrupted him, "lie low." They were in an overgrown field.

He complied. "What gives?"

Crouched down behind a large cluster of weeds, Frank replied in a low tone, "I think I see the reflection of binoculars on the mound near the riverbank."

"But how did someone follow us? We were certain to keep our tracks covered!"

"Not good enough, I suppose," Frank said ruefully. The train whistle sounded again, much closer this time. "Come on!"

The freight car was fast approaching. Joe followed Frank as they squatted among the weeds. Joe glanced at the mound across the tracks. There he noticed a figure hastily descending the dune. "I see him!" he panted.

"Keep up, Joe!" Frank called.

By now the freight car was upon them, its momentum chugging it steadily along the tracks. One freight car after another gradually passed a sprinting Frank and Joe as they ran parallel to it.

"There!" Frank pointed as he caught glimpse of an approaching boxcar with its door open.

Timing it perfectly, Frank effortlessly hoisted himself up into the open car. Grabbing a hold of a wrought iron handle, he reached out his free left hand. "Come on, Joe!" he urged his brother. "Grab my hand!"

It took Joe a few attempts before he finally clutched Frank's arm. Frank pulled him up and the two collapsed onto the floorboards. The car was littered with hay and other farming tools. An aged hobo in overalls in the corner of the car waved at them before turning over and falling back asleep.

"Do you think our pursuer also hopped the train?" Frank asked.

"Judging by how they work, probably," his brother replied.

"You're right. We need to expect anything can happen."

The two rode in silence catching some sporadic winks in the hour ride back to Bayport. They both later recounted having strange, fleeting nightmares of their recent encounters with the secret syndicate.

It was Joe who woke first. He elbowed his brother. "Wake up, Frank." The train was slowly coming to a stop. The city of Bayport appeared in the distance. The Hardys could see a quarter of a mile down the tracks a barricade had been erected.

"Checkpoint," Frank said. "Even if it is Chief Collig and his men, we don't want to let it out yet that we're in the city."

Joe suggested, "Let's bail out now and cut through the cemetery."

"Good idea."

Swiftly, the Hardys leaped from the slowing train, landing on the dirt off the tracks, and rolling for a bit until jumping up and creeping away from the train, down a ravine, and into the old cemetery, which included the remains of original settlers of Bayport.

Cutting through backyards and offbeat roads, they finally arrived at their house through the back fence behind the barn. It was about noon.

Mrs. Hardy was preparing a light lunch in the kitchen. She nearly let out a yell when she saw the back doorknob jangling. She had locked it in the wake of the lockdown.

"Hello, Mother!" they called.

"Sons!" she cried. They each embraced her. Suddenly, the light lunch became a hearty brunch of omelettes and pancakes. "Poor Chet," Joe said between large bites, "I almost feel guilty."

"I don't!" Frank replied merrily.

Their mother sat enraptured as they updated her on their most recent exploits, including meeting the young writer, F.W. Dixon, who was determined to continue the story Scott Duffield was following.

"Have you heard from Dad, Mother?" Joe asked expectantly.

Mrs. Hardy nodded. "A brief note that he is fine," she said. "But I'm very concerned that now with you two embroiled in this case, this is the likes of which neither your father nor I have yet experienced!"

After doing the dishes and laying out their plan with Mrs. Hardy for while in Bayport, Frank then telephoned Callie Shaw. The couple arranged to meet at the shake shop across from Sinclair's Bookstore.

"Great," declared Joe, "I'll stop by to see Iola!"

Frank had been looking forward to seeing Callie, whom he knew he had neglected during his sleuthing into Orangethorpe's syndicate. After treating her to an ice cream treat at Piper's while chatting frivolously, Callie pulled out a thick binder.

"You Hardys haven't been the only detectives in this case," she said slyly.

"Guess not," Frank replied eying the files. "Mother said you've been urgently trying to reach me?"

"Well, it wasn't _just_ courteous calls, Frank Hardy," she smiled, her eyes glimmering. "I think I might have found the key to the case."

Frank put out his hands. "I'm all ears."

Callie proceeded to detail her recent adventure. Frank was surprised to hear she too traveled into New York City, to the New York Public Library, where the daughter of Harwood van Bueren, who the prolific author originally tapped to manage the business aspect of his writing endeavors, had donated to the archives a considerable amount of material related to the founding of his creative output.

Among the documents in the archives was a biographical section of Janus Orangethorpe, whom van Bueren appointed co-manager and eventually co-owner of the syndicate. "It was a move that greatly displeased Harwood van Bueren's daughter, Martha," Callie said.

"Because he was basically given keys to the kingdom?"

"Martha was wary of how much her father held Janus Orangethorpe in such regard," Callie continued. "About eight years ago, with sales soaring and Harwood too busy with his own writing, Janus Orangethorpe took a leave of absence."

"Was it significant?"

"He was gone six months. Do you know where he was?"

Frank shrugged. "Hudson Bay?"

Callie shook her head. "Russia."

Frank did a double take. "The Soviet Union?" Frank took in the information while processing everything he knew about Orangethorpe up to that point. "Just after the Bolshevik Revolution. It actually makes perfect sense," he said quietly.

"These are horrible men," Callie said slowly. "Who are polluting the minds with their new revisions of old classics so parents won't think otherwise."

"While burning the great other ones," Frank replied flatly. He thought for a moment. Finally, he said aloud, "So the syndicate are now Russians."

"I don't think so," Callie countered. "I just think Orangethorpe turned the syndicate writers into Communists."

"But what about Martha Orangethorpe? Couldn't she have done something?"

"Maybe. But she died a year ago."

Frank's face fell. He could only shake his head. "And then Harwood van Bueren goes missing, with books supposedly authored by him suddenly appearing."

The two sat silent for a moment. Then Frank slapped the table. "Something has to be done. And quick. Thanks Callie, but I have to go." He slid out from the booth.

"Where are you going?" Callie asked.

"I'm going to find Jerry Gilroy."


	15. Chapter XIV Recruiting Jerry Gilroy

CHAPTER XIV

 _RECRUITING JERRY GILROY_

Callie accompanied Frank to the Gilroy residence on Bayport Island. The Gilroy family had long established themselves as influential members of the community after Jerry's great-grandfather, G.L. Gilroy, made himself a wealthy man as a shipping tycoon.

Frank and Callie arrived at the gated residence where the family's longtime housekeeper, Mac Waxman, was stationed. Having recognized Jerry's schoolmates from functions at the house over the years, he warmly greeted the two and led them to the front entrance.

Jerry was pleasantly surprised to see them. "It's sure been a dull break without you Hardys and the other fellows around," Jerry chided his friend after saying hello to Callie. "What gives?"

"I'm about to tell you. Can we go someplace quiet?" Frank asked.

Jerry accompanied Frank and Callie to a remote sitting room in the sprawling mansion. Presently, Mac Waxman's wife, Harriet, brought them refreshments. Frank waited until Mrs. Waxman was out of earshot before speaking in a low, hushed tone to Jerry.

"What we're about to tell you is both highly sensitive and also highly speculative," Frank began. "It's what we've been able to piece together at this point. I also fear my father may be in danger."

"Let's hear it," Jerry replied.

For the next half hour, Frank and Callie alternated bringing Jerry Gilroy up to speed, beginning with the day when the friends were in Sinclair's bookshop.

"Sure," Jerry recalled, "I remember when those young louts came in to buy Taylor Gang books."

"Exactly," Frank said.

Callie detailed the origin of the van Bueren syndicate, the takeover by Janus Orangethorpe, his stint in Russia, and the revisions that have been in effect on Taylor Gang books. Once Frank recounted the harrowing event outside Hixon with Chet and Joe's capture and the burning of books, Jerry frowned deeply.

"So the coup down at Hixon, Bayport being on lockdown, the Coast Guard on patrol, all of this is connected to the Taylor Gang books?"

Frank nodded solemnly. "And who knows the untold number of youths reading these new books who have the faintest idea that they are Soviet-Communist propaganda."

Jerry's face went ashen.

"Jerry, are you all right?" Callie asked concern. "You're pale."

It took a moment for Jerry to respond. "I-I h-have to show you something."

He indicated for Callie and Frank to follow him. He led them down the hall of the spacious manor and up a winding staircase. "You remember my younger brother, Billy?" Jerry asked Frank.

"Sure! How's he doing?"

"He's away with a friend's family on a camping trip this break," Jerry related as he stopped before a door. "This is his room." Again, Jerry's face clouded with a pained expression.

"What is it, Jerry?" Callie prodded. "What's wrong?"

"I should have intervened a long time ago," Jerry confessed. "But I didn't think much of it." Then he opened the door to his brother's room and flicked on the light.

Draped across nearly an entire wall was the blood red Soviet flag, replete with the gold hammer and sickle. Callie gasped. Frank grit his teeth. Jerry then listlessly directed them to the bookshelf, where below dusty model airplanes and fallen toy soldiers were rows of Taylor Gang books. "He's only ten," Jerry's voice cracked.

Frank quickly flipped through each one. "They're all the new ones," he related, crestfallen. "He even has multiple copies of them."

"Because we can afford it," Jerry answered, deep sadness in his voice. "His friends come over to get them. He took a satchel full of them on the camping trip."

"But—haven't your parents said anything about the flag?" Callie asked.

"The Waxmans tend to the house." Now Jerry was nearly despondent. "They're always traveling for business. It's my fault," he cried. "It's my fault!"

Instinctively, Callie embraced him. Frank turned and stared at the imposing flag on the wall. _How many other ruined adolescents are hanging such an emblem in their own bedrooms across the country_ , he thought to himself.

"Why did you want to see me?" Jerry asked Frank, fighting back tears. "Is my brother caught up in something?"

"Not yet," Frank replied. "I'm sorry, Jerry, I didn't know about his turn in ideology, but it exemplifies everything we've suspected about this case. No, we came here for your help."

"What do you mean?"

"Other than that first day at the bookstore, you are the only one amid the chums the syndicate wouldn't recognize. How would you feel about posing as a disgruntled American who wants to join their movement?"

"Become a part of their syndicate?" he asked, wide-eyed.

Frank nodded. "You'd be our eyes and ears until we're ready to strike."

"An infiltrator," Callie added.

Jerry thought for a moment. "Think of your brother," Frank urged softly.

With resolve, Jerry looked into his friend's eyes. "I don't have to," he said firmly. "I'll do it."

Frank, Callie, and Jerry reconvened with Iola and Joe at Sinclair's Bookstore. Mr. Sinclair gladly allowed them access to the basement. There, surrounded by the original Taylor Gang books, they plotted out the plan for Jerry's infiltration into Orangethorpe's syndicate.

"We'll be with you every step of the way," Frank assured his brave friend. "Just out of sight."

The plan was for Jerry to head down to Hixon and announce he wanted to join up with the Orangethorpe group. Based on the ideology espoused in the new revisions, he would show that he was influenced by the books and that at his age was ready to be of service to the party.

The Hardys bet that the Hudson Bay location served as headquarters. It was also where Harwood van Bueren made his residence and where he authored his books. "Our hunch is that Janus Orangethorpe wanted to keep the charade alive that van Bueren was really writing the new revisions," Joe said. "So the publisher probably did not want to disrupt a good thing, so they accepted whatever content was coming out of the Hudson Bay thinking it was van Bueren."

"The problem, though," Callie interrupted, "Is that Scott Duffield said the publisher ordered the revisions. Not the other way around."

"I have a feeling Scott Duffield isn't telling us everything," Joe suggested. He turned to his brother. "And I'm a little wary of that Dixon fellow, too," he added.

"We need proof our theory is correct, Jerry," Frank said. "Evidence that there is a network forging books under van Bueren's name. We're already seeing this great country become a police state—is Hixon still under Communist control, by the way?" he asked to nobody in particular.

"The governor has declared it a state of emergency," Iola reported. "There has not yet been a plan to retake it."

The group pored over a map of the state Mr. Sinclair had stored in the basement. It was determined that the best course of action would be for the Hardys to physically follow Jerry as much as possible. "It will require much stealth and improvisation," Joe admitted, "But we want to be sure to be there if you are in a bind. We're the ones putting you up to this, after all."

"I _want_ to do it," Jerry replied. "It's obvious they've poisoned my brother. It needs to stop before it's too late."

Frank and Joe asked Callie and Iola to contact Biff and Chet in Harpertown, to relay them a secure message about the plans for infiltrating Hudson Bay. The chums were to meet up with the writer, Dixon, and persuade him to head towards Manitoba.

"If it's possible," Frank said, "It would be best if they, too, can travel northward. Have them contact Ike Harrity." The girls promised they would immediately.

"There's always the use of our shipping business," Jerry offered.

"That might be our way back. Let's keep it in mind," Frank replied.

The plan now agreed by everyone, the group ventured out of the Sinclair Bookstore basement, Joe casting one final wistful glance at the original Taylor Gang books.

Iola returned to work, and Callie dropped Jerry off at the border. The Hardys quickly explained to the officer in charge their secret plan to debunk the syndicate. After contacting Chief Collig on the short-wave transistor, the officer allowed Jerry to pass the blockade.

"We'll meet at the last station before Hixon in two hours," Frank said as he shook hands with Jerry.

The Hardys returned home to pack some items. They were disturbed when they found their mother upset.

"What is it, Mother?"

"I-I've just received that telegram," she stammered, pointing to the dining room table. Joe quickly unfolded it.

" _In trouble—F.H._ "


	16. Chapter XV The Defector

CHAPTER XV

 _THE DEFECTOR_

In Harpertown, Biff and Chet were grabbing a late lunch. The weather had turned sour; a mid-morning downpour had not yet relented. They received a message from the _Literary Monthly_ reporter, Dixon, that he would like to meet with them.

A package was urgently sent from the magazine headquarters in New York to the Harpertown Post Office addressed to Mr. Dixon and he believed it vital to the case. "I'll meet you at the Bastanchury," he told Biff and Chet at the motel, referencing the name of the café where the boys now ate their BLT sandwiches.

Just as they washed down their lunch with milk, Dixon breathlessly entered the restaurant, his raincoat drenched. The chums waved their new ally over to the booth they occupied.

"Any word from the Hardys?" he panted, signaling to the waitress for a glass of water as he hung his soaked jacket on the hook.

"Nothing," Biff replied, scooting down to give Dixon room.

"What did you uncover?" Chet asked.

A waitress set an ice water and straw on the tabletop. Dixon held a manila envelope that he had tucked away under his sweater vest. "I was certain this was going to get ruined by the rain," he began. "I have the most incredible news."

Biff inquired, a bit impatiently, "What is it?"

"Scott Duffield sent this to Mr. Sorma at the magazine. He's alive, but more importantly than that, he fooled everyone."

"How so?"

F.W. Dixon glanced first to Chet, then to Biff, a smile slowly emerging from his tired face. "Duffield's not a real reporter. He's a member of the Bureau of Investigation."

Biff and Chet exchanged glances and whistled softly.

"That's not all. Frank and Joe's father, Fenton Hardy, is working with the BOI in investigating the Orangethorpe ring. But until Frank and Joe and all of you got involved, they never were able to piece together the Taylor Gang books element."

"So Duffield wasn't exactly scared off?" Biff asked. "It was just a ruse?"

"To an extent. He was afraid his cover was going to be lifted. Luckily his work at _Literary Monthly_ provided him the background to lead him to believe the dissenters were the same as the writers of the books. But he had to back off when things were getting too hot."

In his excitement, Mr. Dixon failed to notice two men at the counter glance over their shoulders at the booth as they sipped their coffees.

"Careful," Chet spoke lowly, noticing them. "If there's one thing I've learned so far from Frank and Joe it's to always be on your guard."

"I don't know about you fellows, but I'm getting used to the attention this syndicate's giving us!" added Biff.

Chet couldn't help but smile at the ironic popularity of being followed. Grinning, he cast a glance at the tails. They narrowed their eyes at him in reply. "Wouldn't it be wiser if tails appeared to be actually friendly?" he wondered aloud to Biff and Dixon.

"Let's meet back at the motel," Dixon suggested. Then, studying Chet's empty plate, he grinned. "Boy, they weren't kidding about your appetite!"

"Say, Mister," Chet said, folding his arms in mock sternness, "If you ever write about this, you better make me thin and slim."

"Where's the fun in that?" Dixon contended, tossing some bills on the table. "You'll get all the good lines, I promise. And I'll even write about the kinds of food you eat and like."

Chet thought it over for a minute. "Well," he said, "I suppose the literary version of myself would want it no other way."

The motel proprietor allowed the three to converse in an unused meeting room just off the main entrance. Dixon again removed the manila envelope.

"So, what's inside, Mr. Dixon?" Biff queried.

The young reporter answered by removing a thick manuscript from the envelope and setting it on the small square table before the boys. Biff and Chet peered down at the title page.

Biff read it aloud, " _American Time Travelers._ Sounds kind of interesting, actually."

"Of course," Dixon agreed, nodding, "As do all the Taylor Gang books. You might even remember reading this one growing up."

"What's the big idea then?" Chet asked.

Dixon tapped the manuscript. "Scott Duffield stole this from the syndicate headquarters in Hudson Bay. It's supposed to be the next new Taylor Gang book released the following week."

With great interest, Chet and Biff thumbed through the pages. The new version of _American Time Travelers_ , supposedly again revised by Harwood van Bueren, chronicled the Taylor Gang discovering an inventor needing assistants for a time machine experiment. The gang agrees, and are transported back in time to the Revolutionary War.

"But like all these revisions, there's a twist," Dixon informed them. "The gang finds not the patriotism they were taught as schoolchildren, but one of corruption and greed."

"So what happens?" Biff, baffled, asked.

"Through the Taylor Gang's time traveling, they actually rewrite history. By the time they return to the modern day, the whole history of the United States has been transformed."

"Let me guess," Chet glowered, "We've become a country of reds—and I don't mean the British."

"Exactly," Dixon declared. "A Marxist state, cloaked in proletariat power. A total charade, of course. There is no diversity, no freedom, no dreams."

"Chet," Biff cut in, "Do you remember last year in Mr. Branford's advanced world history class we read Marx and Engels?"

"Sure. _The Communist Manifesto_."

"We talked about discrediting, remember? A goal is to discredit fundamentals central to our way of life. Basically, the principles of American way of life," Biff said.

"They're doubling down," Chet replied nodded. "They're not only innocently subverting its American readers, but now the content is full-blown. They're discrediting patriotism itself, just when Taylor Gang readers are at their most impressionable!"

Dixon, watching the two teenagers discuss with such intelligence and passion, marveled at the exchange. He made one mental note after another. Truly, he thought, the Hardy boys have great friends.

"Mr. Dixon, we _have_ to stop this manuscript from being published. We have to stop the whole gang!" Chet cried out.

There was a quick rap at the meeting room door. Dixon put a finger to his lips. The three grew silent. The door opened. The motel proprietor stood with another man dressed as a courier.

"Telegram for Allen Hooper?" the proprietor called out, reading the typed name on the envelope.

Biff dashed over, snatched the envelope, and quickly shut the door on the gaping mouths of the befuddled proprietor and courier. Biff ripped open the envelope. Returning back to the table, he softly read it aloud.

" _En route to Hudson Bay. I. Harrity at Harpertown port 1500. – Frank & Joe_." He looked over at the two others. "What time is it?"

Dixon glanced at his wristwatch. "It's nearly a quarter of three."

"We've got to get to the pier!"

Meanwhile, having seen Frank and Joe a final time at the train depot outside Hixon for concluding instructions, Jerry Gilroy calmly walked towards the makeshift blockade that was set up at the Hixon border on the main road leading into the town. A bearded man in an orange, heavy coat held up a hand.

"Where do you think yer goin', son?"

"I'm here to see the heads of the new town government," Gilroy replied, flatly.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I want to defect," the baseball player said simply.

The guard studied Jerry suspiciously, yet he could discern no indication that the young man met otherwise. Jerry Gilroy's face was perfectly emotionless. Behind Gilroy a car rumbled toward the roadblock. A confused elderly couple honked the automobile's horn.

"Fine, go ahead," the man finally said, impatiently waving Gilroy ahead. "Stop in that tent about 500 yards straightaway."

Gilroy kept a brisk pace to avoid the guard second guessing himself. Watching their friend make his way into Hixon territory through binoculars, Frank and Joe kept hidden in a forested area off the main road. They watched through the lenses as Gilroy disappeared inside the tent.

Five minutes went by, then ten. Frank and Joe nervously kept still, waiting for some sign. They had arranged with Gilroy if that he were to be transferred out of the town, he would give a signal that he would be en route to headquarters in Hudson Bay.

"Nothing," murmured Joe, frustrated. "Clock is ticking, Frank."

"This might completely backfire, you know," his older brother commented. "They might even send Jerry away, or he might stay in Hixon for all we know."

Little did the Hardys realize that inside the tent during these precious minutes their friend was undergoing an intense round of questioning. The ringleader of the interrogation was an oily-faced man called Monroe, who was earlier responsible for sabotaging the Hardy sedan with Fenton Hardy and Sam Radley in it.

"Why do you want to join our outfit?" Monroe asked without any warmth in his voice.

"My younger brother had the new Taylor Gang books lying around. So I started reading them. They speak to me. They're exactly where we need to take our country."

"So you're a reader?"

"I am."

"A writer?"

"Especially."

Monroe asked, "What do your friends think of your intent to defect?"

"Frank and Joe Hardy?" he scoffed. "I wouldn't dare tell them! They're close-minded American 'patriots'!" Gilroy exclaimed.

Monroe seemed satisfy with that line of inquisitions. Then for the next fifteen minutes he administered to Gilroy an aptitude quiz and writing assignment. As the Hardys knew Jerry was the best writer of the chums, they gambled that the syndicate would be on the lookout for new talent.

Finishing his assignment, which involved Jerry hypothetically suggesting how to turn more American minds to the Soviet cause, Monroe took the essays to others. He even radioed the acting head of Hixon at Hixon Village Town Centre, Delancy Egans. Finally, after 30 minutes, he returned to face Jerry.

"We have an answer for you," Monroe said.

Jerry stood up from the metal folding chair. The wait was beginning to weigh on him. "Yes?" he asked.

"We want to train you further, Comrade. We need someone with your writing talent."

"Am I being sent somewhere?"

"All will be revealed," Monroe said. "But if you must know, you are. You're going to the Citadel."

Finally, the Hardys patience at last paid off when a truck rumbled out of the Hixon camp. A hand motioned from the open flap of the cargo hold.

"There's the sign!" Frank shouted. "He's going to headquarters! Come on, Joe!" Frank urged.

The brothers hastened to the sleepy rail depot on the outskirts of Hixon. The eternally old clerk, a whiskered old veteran named Haskell nodded off at the counter.

"Sir, we need to wire another cable!" Frank announced, breathlessly as their shoes thumped along the wooden planks of the depot.

Instantly, Haskell set to work, tapping the cable key. "Message?" he croaked.

"To Jack Wayne, Bayport Airfield. Jack, proceed to abandoned airstrip outside Hixon pronto, stop. En route to HQ, stop. Frank and Joe H. Stop."

"It's sent. That'll be six cents, sonny," Haskell said.

Joe paid the man and again the brothers again dashed off. "Faster, Frank, we have no time to lose!"

"I just realized we completely miscalculated!" Frank shouted as they sprinted towards the abandoned airfield that once served the towns outside Bayport.

"What is it?"

"You have your red cashmere sweater and I have my blue one, and that's all we have!"

"So?"

"And we're going into the Hudson Bay where it's below freezing!" Frank cried.

Joe allowed himself a quick grin, looking back gamely at his brother as they continued running. "We have bigger fish to fry than clothes, Frank." He took some breaths. "But look on the bright side: at least it's cashmere!"

From above they heard the drone of a private aircraft gradually descending towards the airstrip a half-mile ahead. _Skyhappy Sal_ was coming in for landing!


	17. Chapter XVI Citadel

CHAPTER XVI

 _CITADEL_

As Jack Wayne landed _Skyhappy Sal_ , another private craft was just taking off. When Frank and Joe entered the airfield, they noticed the same truck that left the Hixon camp rumble away.

"Jerry's on that plane, Frank!" Joe pointed to the disappearing aircraft in the grey sky. "There is little time to lose!"

The panting Hardys, having exerted themselves beyond measure to meet their pilot, waved Jack Wayne down as he emerged from the cockpit. They quickly explained to him the scenario. Wayne instantly grasped the magnitude of the mission. He had spoken with Laura Hardy after she received the telegram from her husband about being in trouble.

"Frank, Joe, I want to introduce you to your father's new assistant," Jack said as they boarded. Sitting in the passenger pit was Sam Radley. They all made quick acquaintance, and within no time Wayne had _Skyhappy Sal_ 's wheels up, and was en route into the Canadian territories.

"If we're fairly certain of Hudson Bay as final destination," Wayne spoke loudly through the headsets, "We'll fly at a slightly different altitude so as not to alert our friends up ahead. My hunch is that they'll take the most direct route possible to the only airport in the area—unless they make an unusual landing somewhere else, but they'll need fuel."

"Sounds good, Jack!" Frank replied.

"It'll be a good five or six hours, men," Wayne continued. "Rest up. You'll need it."

Meanwhile, promptly at 3:00, Ike Harrity arrived at the Harpertown port in a military grade, large sized speedboat, equipped with radar capability and radio communication. As Biff, Chet, and F.W. Dixon loaded their gear into the vessel, Harrity explained to them the course he charted.

"According to reports much of the bay has thawed," Harrity reported, referring to James Bay, the intended final destination of the vessel. "But it will be perilous, indeed. The Arctic Ocean often shows no mercy." The Newfoundland native knew the geography well, and knowing time and conditions were against them, they quickly set off into the north to the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

Night had descended by the time Jack Wayne announced _Skyhappy Sal_ was making its descent towards Hudson Bay Airport.

"We'll have to determine a mode of transport when we land," Joe thought aloud.

"I've already arranged that with the RCMP," Sam Radley answered, referring to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. "While you were napping, I contacted them via radio transmission. They will be monitoring each plane that arrives in the region tonight. From there we should be able to figure out the destination to the Citadel."

Joe smiled sheepishly. "I didn't realize I fell asleep for so long."

"Don't worry about it, kid," Jack Wayne said through the headset. "Like I said, you'll need it. This ain't no vacation."

With that, Wayne expertly maneuvered _Skyhappy Sal_ into its final course. With the landing gear down, he soon landed safely at Hudson Bay Airport.

When the party stepped out of the plane, they were immediately hit with a gust of frigid air. A cadre from the RCMP awaited them. Frank and Joe directly made introductions with Captain Bossart, a distinguished French-Canadian with a thin mustache.

The brothers asked about a recent flight that landed. "Yes, I believe those are the suspects in question. They quickly headed out into the subdued region of Moose Factory. This vehicle is at your disposal."

Thanking the captain, Sam Radley took the wheel as Frank and Joe said good-bye to Jack Wayne. He would remain on high alert at the airfield refueling _Skyhappy Sal_.

In a moment, the RCMP-loaned jeep rumbled away towards Moose Factory. Originally a community of the Hudson's Bay Company, the small village of Moose Factory was now largely inhabited by the Cree.

A few decades ago, Harwood van Bueren had established his own print shop factory outside of town near the cottage where he wrote his novels. While residents kept mainly to themselves, all knew of the existence of the prolific writer's compound. It was dubbed in the area as the "Citadel."

"The native said look for the long, winding driveway coming up on the left hand side," Frank related as the jeep ascended an incline.

"There will likely be guards along the way. Maybe we park and hike it?" Joe suggested.

"It will be treacherous given the terrain," Radley replied. "But you're right, Joe. We don't want to take any chances."

There was a small gravel inlet off the road. Radley parked the jeep there. Captain Bossart provided the trio with a map of the Hudson Bay area and surrounding topography. Armed with the map, binoculars, and some flares that Sam Radley packed, the three took to the Canadian terrain for an incognito approach to the Citadel.

The compound owned by Harwood van Bueren had been transformed into less a haven for a reclusive writer than a military camp. There was a guardhouse positioned along the extensive driveway, the only means for accessing the compound proper.

Once through, a visitor would find a building that initially served as the van Bueren family home. It was there that he and his wife raised their three daughters. In due time, however, all had passed away, except the interminable van Bueren himself. Upon their deaths, he devoted himself solely to writing, receiving much joy from the hordes of fan letters who adored the Taylor Gang series.

Now, the joyous family home had become Janus Orangethorpe's personal headquarters, where he conducted meetings, drafted communiqués to the Kremlin, and plotted his gradual takeover of American hearts and minds by subverting the very books American children loved—the Taylor Gang books.

When Jerry Gilroy and the envoy escorting him arrived at the compound, he was taken there first, and told to stand outside Orangethorpe's personal study. Gilroy, his heart pounding, stood straight ahead facing the mahogany door until it finally flew open.

"Enter!" someone said on the other side. Jerry complied.

Janus Orangethorpe stood in the middle of the dimly lit room. A spacious Oriental rug spread out across the floorboards. Old stuffy furniture was spread out, though there was no feeling of warmth. On portable blackboards that could be moved around on wheels, Jerry noticed that maps had been draped over them. He only quickly noticed the maps were of specific areas of the United States, New York City being one—and Bayport.

Orangethorpe studied Gilroy before taking a sip from a tiny teacup. But whatever was in the cup caused Orangethorpe to give a disgusted smirk. He spit the liquid out, spraying it across the aged carpet.

"Cham-bers!" Jerry looked around, confused at the call. Then, as fast as he could, the stooped, short man—Orangethorpe's driver—hastened towards his boss. This was Prescott Chambers.

"When I say tea, Chambers, I expect it to be _warm_ ," Orangethorpe snapped in his British cadence. The displeased leader thrust the teacup and plate towards his underling. "So," Orangethorpe said, turning to face the young man before him, gingerly wiping his hands with a silk napkin. "They call you…Gilroy?"

Jerry only nodded. He dared not speak.

Orangethorpe gazed over his spectacles at a paper on his desk. "Monroe claims you have excellent writing abilities. What are some of your favorite books?"

Jerry tried to hide his gulp. Judging by what the Hardys taught him, he was before an avowed enemy of Western literature.

"I'm waiting, Gilroy," Orangethorpe replied, taking a long blink.

"The old classics, sir," Jerry said. Orangethorpe's eyes widened with anticipation. "By that I mean, Hegel, Hegel, and Hegel."

The precocious 18-year-old kept a straight face, venturing Orangethorpe's reaction would be positive. Yet Orangethorpe glared at him for what seemed like an endless time. Then Orangethorpe erupted in laughter.

"Haven't I always said, Chambers, that our works need a more…Marxist comedy?" Again, Orangethorpe laughed uncontrollably, his face reddening, tears welling in his eyes.

Prescott Chambers shifted uncomfortably. He and Jerry Gilroy exchanged the briefest of bemused glances.

Finally, Orangethorpe's impeccable cool returned. He again gazed stoically at the lad before him. Finally, he said, "Hither."

Without hesitation, Chambers guided Gilroy out the door following Orangethorpe as they left the study.

They crossed the damp grounds from the house to a barn-like structure out back. Jerry could feel eyes on him. Indeed, guards were situated all around the structure's perimeter.

As they reached the main entrance, the door swung open, anticipating their arrival. The man nodded at Orangethorpe and let the trio in, glaring specifically at Jerry. They arrived in a small lobby that had a single painting on the wall—a framed portrait of V.I. Lenin.

Orangethorpe turned to Gilroy. "Are you serious about the party? Your defection is real?"

"Of course it is, sir. I want to change this country, and my friends. I want to help."

"Does the name Harwood van Bueren ring a bell?" Orangethorpe asked quizzically. Prescott Chambers leaned in closer to Gilroy as well, awaiting the answer.

Jerry pretended to think for a moment. Then he smiled. "I cannot lie. He is now one of my favorite writers. Even though I am of an age when I have outgrown him, and moved on to more adult fare."

"Such as?"

"Like those they teach us in school. Mark Twain, Upton Sinclair, even returning to the Latin writers, Caesar, and the like."

"Bah," a riled Orangethorpe replied, swatting the air in front of him. "That's where you are behind the times. Now, the youths read van Bueren, and they want to know more. So they start reading, as you said, Hegel. Marx. Engels. David Hume. They start asking questions of their existence, of their life's purpose."

Gilroy felt fear bolt through him like lightning. Even Prescott Chambers was nodding as if mesmerized.

"They stop looking to the West," Orangethorpe continued, "But to the East. To us. To the dawn of man."

Gilroy studied Orangethorpe's crazed green eyes, the white stubble around his chin. He suddenly seemed very old, Jerry thought. Almost, he decided, reptilian. He thought of the turtle Chet hoisted out of Bayport High. Suddenly that innocent memory seemed so long ago.

In an instant, a sense of normalcy returned to Orangethorpe's face. Kindly, he asked, "Would you like to meet Harwood van Bueren?"

Jerry's eyes brightened. "Would I?" he asked.

"Hither," Orangethorpe said again. Chambers flung some curtains back. They took a few steps towards what seemed like auditorium doors, as if they were about to enter a theater. Orangethorpe himself opened the door, motioning for Jerry to enter.

Jerry took a few steps, but the room was nothing like a theater. He found himself at the top floor of an open, massive warehouse facility before him. For as far as the eye could see, the space below was occupied with rows and rows of desks, and at each desk, a person typed away on a typewriter. All that could be heard was the unceasing clattering of typewriter keys pounding away.

"My young friend, meet Harwood van Bueren," Janus Orangethorpe said proudly. Jerry Gilroy could not believe his eyes. He looked out again at the swarm of writers, completely focused on the pages before them.

"This is the brain of influence," Janus Orangethorpe was saying. "The Citadel of power. Where something as meaningless as the Taylor Gang dime novels become spheres of global revolution."

Not knowing what to say, Jerry Gilroy only found himself muttering, "How is this p-p-possible? H-harwood van Bueren is…not real?" he incredulously asked.

Orangethorpe again erupted in laughter. Even Prescott Chambers allowed the slightest of smiles.

"Oh, he very much is real. These are ghosts, my boy. Nameless ghosts committed to a cause bigger than their own nameless, miniscule, meaningless lives. And soon, you will join them. But, first, again—hither."

Now with a dreadful feeling, Jerry Gilroy followed Janus Orangethorpe down a hallway and to a dark stairwell. They descended four flights in the narrow staircase before Chambers unlocked a door. There they went down a tunnel-like hallway, with only a few dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Jerry could hear water drops in various places, as if he were in a cavern.

He jumped unexpectedly when Orangethorpe rattled a metal door. "Who goes there?" he growled, answering his own knock, and again laughed weirdly. "Now, open it up, Chambers," he directed with seriousness.

Prescott Chambers fumbled with different keys before he found the right one. Orangethorpe sighed, rolling his eyes.

Then the door creaked open. Chambers had to light a match in order for the room to light up.

Jerry Gilroy gasped. Bound hand and foot to a wooden chair was an old man with white, disheveled hair and an untrimmed beard! "Harwood van Bueren?" Gilroy croaked.

Then he heard a moan from another part of the room. He wheeled around and upon seeing another man in a similar condition, but this man was standing, his knees buckling, his hands tied above his head.

Jerry shouted without abandon, "Mr. Hardy!"

At the recognition of Fenton Hardy, Janus Orangethorpe immediately frowned.

"You know this man?" Orangethorpe demanded.

"He-he's the father of my friends!" Gilroy replied, his voice shaking.

Orangethorpe's face changed. "Ah, you have c _ompassion_ for this man. You _care_ for this man. Then you will join this man!"

Orangethorpe shoved Jerry Gilroy into the cell. The door locked. Gilroy sprawled across the dusty, grimy cell floor, hitting his chin on the stony concrete. Fenton craned to see if Jerry was okay, but his own pain and limited movement only made him more limp.

Sprawled across the spider-infested floor, a stunned Jerry Gilroy could only hear Orangethorpe's shrilling laugh echo through the chilly cavity of the prison cell!


	18. Chapter XVII Daring Rescue

CHAPTER XVII

 _DARING RESCUE_

It was nearly midnight when the vigilant Hardys and Sam Radley finally detected movement around the Citadel. A whistle, not unlike one heard at a factory indicating quitting time, permeated throughout the campus.

Shortly thereafter, all of the "ghosts" Jerry Gilroy saw hunched at their typewriters exited the large fortress building and proceeded in different directions towards barracks positioned around the grounds.

"Who are all these people?" Joe asked in awe.

"The proletariat," his brother replied through clenched teeth. "The question is, where is Jerry?"

"While this place is crawling with these bodies we'll easily be detected," Radley answered. "But this looks like a coordinated effort. Almost like they're punching a clock."

The three Bayport spies were positioned on a dune amid trees and shrubbery on the outskirts of the property. Ahead of them was Orangethorpe's own complex. The fortress with the exiting ghosts was about a hundred yards away.

"Maybe they're the writers," Frank suggested. "They seem exhausted."

Joe commented, "They have that same dazed, eccentric demeanor the mob had when Chet and I were cornered."

"Let's make sure _that_ doesn't happen again," Radley mentioned. "It's clear that warehouse is where we want to be. We'll be able to learn more than out here, especially as the temperature continues to dip."

"Ready for our infiltration?" Joe asked, unable to suppress an excited grin.

"You're on, brother!" Frank replied, gathering his things.

Radley, loading up his own satchel, chuckled. "I think I'm going to like working with you Hardys."

In order to reach the area proper, the three had to return down the hill on a small natural trail leading the opposite way. As they stealthily descended, they noticed approaching figures with flashlights coming up the hill two hundred feet in front of them.

"Take cover!" Radley ordered.

The three figures neared, talking indistinctly with each other. They were dressed for the conditions, in white camouflage apparel and wore ski masks.

"Why was Orangethorpe so upset tonight?" one was asking.

"The new kid recruit," replied the other.

"What about him?" questioned the third.

"Turned out to be a spy."

A look of dismay crossed the Hardys and Radley's faces. Jerry Gilroy must have been caught!

Now the camouflaged trio passed the hidden group proceeding to the top of the dune. One could be heard bickering, "I don't know why they need all three of us patrolling Citadel base camp tonight. It's freezing out here!"

"Would you rather be in Russia, Townsend? Quit complainin'!"

Townsend! Joe thought to himself. He remembered him as one of the truck drivers along with the main henchman, Kilbride.

Frank quickly realized it was Orangethorpe's foot patrol. An idea occurred to him but one that would have to be quickly enacted. For fear of blowing their cover, Frank gestured to Joe and Sam via finger motions his plan: attack the patrol.

Joe and Sam understood. Without hesitation, the three charged at the backs of the unsuspecting guardsmen. Each took one without abandon. Joe dove and brought Townsend down by the shoulders. "Oomph," a dazed Townsend sounded as his masked face connected with the hard snow.

Frank lowered his head and drove into his opponent. The force thrust both Frank and his man to the ground. Quick to respond, the man quickly bounced back to his feet, and returned the maneuver by rushing towards Frank with his head down.

Bracing himself, Frank grabbed the man and held on. Both throttled backwards, rolling back down the dune trail. As they did, kicking up snow and dirt, they exchanged punches to the face and torso.

Radley was the last to reach the guardsmen. By now, the third man had noticed his two comrades had been jumped. Radley, however, circled around the undergrowth, enacting a surprise by calling out from higher above the sand dune, "You're surrounded!"

Humiliated that he was outfoxed, the third man charged at Radley, who quickly produced a formidable branch fallen from a tree. He struck at the man's legs followed by an undercut to the jaw. The man quickly fell, unconscious.

As Joe leaned down to inspect the fallen, unmoving Townsend, Townsend retaliated by quickly tossing a handful of snow at Joe's unprotected face. The tactic blindsided the younger Hardy, who desperately tried to shake the substance out of his eyes.

Townsend swatted at Joe's ankle and gave a tug. The imbalance caused Joe to fall back, smacking the ground. Townsend then leaped to his feet and dove at Joe's throat!

Townsend's advantage just as quickly ended, however, when Radley's branch came down on Townsend's neck. Townsend went limp, rolling off to the side, unconscious.

"Thanks, Radley," Joe panted. "Where's Frank?"

"He's down the hill," Radley said, pulling him up. "Come on!"

As they raced down the precarious decline, they halted when a figure approached them in the camouflage apparel. There was no sign of Frank. The figure, too, stopped upon noticing Joe and Radley. Radley and Joe poised to fight, confident in their advantage.

Then, inexplicably, the figure removed his mask.

"Frank!" Joe and Radley shouted.

"It's our only way to get inside the Citadel untethered," the elder Hardy replied, holding up the mask. "Do the same."

In a few moments, both Radley and Joe swapped their jackets for the heavy white camouflage of the guardsmen. Then with confident forward strides they proceeded towards the imposing repository.

By now the cadre of exhausted writers had all returned to their respective cabins. A number of guards, however, surrounded the fortress. The three Bayporters, noticing the guards, subtly nodded at each other in recognition.

A guard situated at the perimeter, himself covered in a ski mask and white camouflage jacket, waved at the approaching men. "Ahoy there, Townsend, Atwood, Richfield. How was patrol?"

Joe waved in return but just as they neared the guard, Frank grabbed the stunned man's arms. Joe covered his mouth. Radley ably tied the man's arms and feet before taping his mouth shut. Only fifteen seconds passed.

The Hardys and Radley silently dismantled guard after guard as they gradually drilled further and further into the center of the fortress itself. Joe always appeared to be the friendly one before Frank dealt the initial blow with Radley rounding them out.

Aided by the late hour and the cover of darkness, they soon found themselves in an antechamber of the fortress, on the east end of the structure. They removed their camouflage; sweat beaded down their faces.

"It's only a matter of time before one of the guards escapes," Frank mentioned as the trio examined a double set of doors leading further inside. "Are we sure Jerry and Dad are inside?"

"No," Radley answered flatly. "We don't even know they're here. But we need proof Harwood van Bueren's name is being forged, and this is indeed a cohort of Communist usurpers."

"But Sam," Joe piped up, "After all we've uncovered? We know for sure who these guys are!"

"Maybe," the young detective and military veteran commented. "But we can't let their principles commandeer ours. 'Innocent until proven guilty'."

The Hardys both apologized for their brashness. They did not want Sam to think they were undermining democratic principles.

"But cheer up, guys," Radley said with a sly grin, "You're having fun, right?"

"And how!" Joe declared. "Let's see what's behind the door!"

Radley nodded, and directed Frank and Joe to take opposite sides of the door. They stealthily complied as Radley inched towards the handle. Slowly, he gripped his fingers around it, and after a momentary wait, tugged it open.

The door opened revealing another long, narrow whitewashed concrete hallway. There was an intersection halfway down. Wary of trap doors or any other surprises, the sleuths carefully approached it. They reached it without trouble, but the spooky silence provoked uneasiness in all of them.

"We have to split up," Frank said finally. From above, they heard the trampling of boots, as if a squadron of guards were hastily moving.

"They're on to us," Radley observed. "Okay, I'll continue down this way. Frank, take the south. Joe, the north. Let's all meet back at the antechamber."

They quickly parted ways, each hastening towards the end of their respective hallways. Each reached the end of their hallways without trouble.

Frank cautiously tested the double doors before proceeding down his passageway. He whipped around in utter surprise when he heard the shrilling command "Halt!" Guards, having stopped at the intersection, glared down at the elder Hardy. Frank, frozen at the doors, glared back.

Then he quickly flew the doors open and charged down the remaining corridor where it dead-ended at a ladder, built against the wall. Frank quickly reasoned it seemed to be his only mode of escape, with the four guards nipping at his heels.

At the other end, Joe discovered the end of his corridor led to a stairwell that went up and down. Peering up he gauged the stairwell consisted of three floors above him.

The stairwell leading down, however, with its poor lighting and small gate indicating it off-limits, appeared more inviting. He lifted his leg over the gate and brought the other over and gingerly took the stairwell down to where a wooden door led likely to the basement.

As he neared the door, Joe paused, hearing boots above him, then voices. "Why aren't any guards posted by the prisoners? Get down there and stand guard!"

"Yes, sir!" replied the other. Joe heard the quick patter of boots descend the steps towards him. He turned and quietly turned the doorknob. It was locked!

Taking a deep breath, he took a few steps into the darkest corner of the stairwell he can find, but his feet crumpled some trash lying on the floor.

"Who's there?" the voice of the guard sounded. Then, he chortled a laugh. "I've been waiting for this!"

In an instant, he charged at Joe!

Radley reached the end of his corridor and upon exiting found himself to be back outside in the darkened Canadian night. He propped his back against the cold concrete and slid furtively across the building. He stopped when his foot banged against a metal grate built into the ground.

Hearing some voices call to each other in Russian, he reached down and gripped his fingers around the bars. The grate lifted, revealing a manhole large enough for him to enter. Quickly, Radley entered the damp crevice, and found his footing on horizontal bars—a ladder!

He quickly descended to another grate. It too lifted off. There must be one per floor, Radley thought to himself as he descended further below ground.

Frank was feverishly climbing the ladder as the pursuing guards gave chase. He noticed he was a few rungs away from a grate. "I sure hope this isn't bolted shut," he thought to himself.

"He can't get anywhere!" shouted one. "But rip 'em down and given 'em a lesson!"

The one closest to Frank reached at his ankle. "Got ya!" he shouted lasciviously. Frank vehemently kicked, but his opponent's grip tightened.

Joe had meanwhile been duking it out in the dusty stairwell with his own formidable opponent. Each had exchanged blow after blow without either one giving an inch.

Joe was desperately recalling the few boxing sessions Biff had taught in the Hardy barn. Never did he dream he would be employing his friend's tactics in an underground stronghold off the Hudson Bay!

"Jab, jab, uppercut!" Joe found himself muttering Biff's teachings. "Jab, jab uppercut!"

The phrase startled the fighter. He blinked, confused, at Joe. It was the moment the brash Hardy was waiting for, as he socked the fiend with the uppercut he had been saving.

It sent his adversary sprawling. Joe quickly unhooked the keys from the man's belt loop and struggled to locate the proper key to unlock the wooden door. The man shook his head to clear the stars. He noticed Joe desperately trying to unlock the door.

Finally, it gave, just as the man lunged for Joe. Fervently, Joe slammed the door shut and managed to lock it while the man pounded desperately to open it.

Having bought himself a few moments, Joe scurried down the dingy, dimly lit hallway, until he realized he was passing empty cell blocks. Fear shot through him.

"Hello?" he called. "Jerry? Dad?" The pounding of the guard attempting to break down the wooden door prompted Joe to pick up his pace. But each cell block door was locked.

The pounding continued, growing louder. Then Joe realized the pounding wasn't from down the hall, but right near him.

"Hello?" he called again. "Anyone in there?"

"Joe?" came a weak voice from inside.

Joe's heart pounded. "Dad!"

"Do you have keys?" his father croaked through the windowless door.

Joe jangled them. "Yes, but which one is it?"

"The skeleton key. I've seen them unlock the door with it."

Joe thumbed through the massive set of keys before him until he found the skeleton key. Hand shaking slightly, he fitted it into the keyhole. It unlocked, and quickly Fenton Hardy embraced his son.

"Are you all right, son?" he asked.

"Fine, Dad," Joe replied, "But how about you?"

"Well, we're here," Fenton said, indicating Jerry Gilroy and a haggard Harwood van Bueren. Joe shook Jerry's hand and nodded at van Bueren. "But we need to get out of here."

"Follow me," Joe said, describing as they exited the cell the plan to meet back up with Frank and Radley. "We have to get out of here before Orangethorpe himself comes for us."

Radley, meanwhile, removed the next lattice as he descended the ladder only to find Frank in peril just below it.

"Frank!" Radley called as he noticed the elder Hardy urgently kicking away his assailants.

Frank looked and instinctively reached for Radley with his right arm. Radley grabbed it, and hoisted him upwards away from the clawing guards.

Rapidly climbing the ladder, they returned to ground level, and cautiously circled back to the antechamber. There they were overjoyed to find Joe had with him Mr. Hardy, Jerry Gilroy, and Harwood van Bueren.

"Let's get you all to the jeep and radio RCMP pronto," Radley ordered.

They agreed and reached the dune trail undetected, descending it just when a horde of guards emerged from the fortress, roaring in chase. It was the elderly author, van Bueren, who slowed the group down. Frank and Joe assisted him on both sides.

"I'm slowing the rescue," the aged author lamented, "On my own property!"

"Just over this sandbank, Mr. van Bueren, and we'll get you into the jeep and then medical attention," Frank assured him.

"Thank you…kindly," van Bueren panted. "I've nearly forgotten there is goodness in this world."

Finally, having reached the jeep, with the angry mob closing in on them, they loaded up in the jeep. Radley started the vehicle, shifted into reverse—but none of the wheels moved!

"What's happening?" Jerry Gilroy cried.

Joe leaped out. "The tires!" he exclaimed in dismay. They were all flat, sabotaged.

By now the throng had surrounded the jeep. Stunned, the group looked around speechless.

Finally, Janus Orangethorpe emerged from the thicket, lighting a pipe. "Leaving so soon?" he calmly asked.

Before the Hardys could respond, all of the rescuers were jumped from behind, the goons muffling their faces with napkins of chloroform!

Instantly, they fell to the muddy ground, unconscious.


	19. Chapter XVIII Exposing the Ghosts

CHAPTER XVIII

 _EXPOSING THE GHOSTS_

At dawn, young Jedediah was nervous. He saw the encroaching squad cars ominously parked around the Hixon border. The coup was likely about to be put to an end by the joint efforts of the overwhelming force of the Hixon, Bayport, and Willowville police departments. But he could not grasp all he had come to believe was about to be shattered by the domineering police state that had become democracy.

Yet before him those who had seized the Hixon government had fled once news was related that Jack Wayne, Fenton Hardy's pilot, had radioed to Bayport the Syndicate was on the run. Even if Wayne knew this was not exactly true, as he hadn't heard from the Hardys in twelve hours, it nonetheless was an effective scare tactic. To Jedediah, the fleeing sowed doubt in his own mind.

"Perhaps this Marxist belief system didn't affect the loyalty he believed it deserved," he thought to himself as he and his remaining ruffians covertly loaded the old rusty truck that had been used for so many shipment deliveries over the past months. Only this time, the truck wasn't being used for delivery purposes. It was to be a weapon, with the ruffians nearly completing the task at hand: filling the cargo hold of the truck with dynamite, donated by Monroe.

Not able to see the activity behind the large tent, Chief Collig stood at the center of the raid party on the Hixon border, gripping his megaphone, waiting for the right moment to launch the siege on the Communist camp that had sequestered Hixon.

He was eager to open the borders back to Bayport, to prove that such ideology had no place in his town—or his country. "We should have struck long ago," he thought to himself. "But I had to honor Fenton's wishes." Above all he did not want to see the case blown open and the Syndicate disappear into another obscure corner of Canada. He knew one's beliefs cannot be privatized, that eventually where there is passion there too is expansion.

"In this case, aggressive expansion," he found himself saying out loud.

A new officer positioned next to the chief looked at his boss, startled. "Chief?" the officer asked, bemused.

"Forget it, Riley," the husky Collig replied.

While Bayport and her allies planned a counterattack, things were much more tenuous at Hudson Bay. Since there was no communication from the Hardys or Sam Radley, and no sign of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police-loaned vehicle, Jack Wayne was determined to no longer sit idle at the hangar.

Wayne contacted the RCMP. "The infiltration tactic seems to have stalled, Captain Bossart," he notified.

"I was afraid of that, Monsieur Wayne," Bossart replied. "Perhaps I trusted Fenton Hardy too much."

"I would have agreed with you if it was any one else, Captain," Jack Wayne countered. "But I have the utmost confidence in his capabilities. The Syndicate, however, may prove too much even for someone with his talents."

"There is a strange coincidence developing in the northern end of the Bay," Bossart said.

"What is it?"

"A vessel from Bayport has entered the northern waters. It's being owned and operated by an old seafarer named Harrity."

Jack brightened at the sound of the familiar name. "What are its coordinates?"

Captain Bossart related the current location of the vessel, which was en route towards Wayne's location in James Bay. Bossart also mentioned the other souls on board, including a reporter, and two youthful Hardy friends, a lanky lad named Hooper, and a rotund fellow called Morton. Morton, evidently, was enduring a long bout of seasickness.

Jack Wayne smiled. Then he readied _Skyhappy Sal_ for takeoff.

At the van Bueren property, now converted as the Syndicate stronghold, the captives gradually came to, finding their hands and feet bound to poles. They were situated in a snowy field, not unlike the open field outside Hixon where the book burning occurred.

Frank blinked his eyes and felt chills all over his body. He looked around the empty field.

This time there was no sign of Tony Prito's pickup truck saving the day. All that could be heard was distant barking from a pack of Canadian eskimo dogs.

"My pets," Janus Orangethorpe's eerily boomed across the field. "They're getting restless and hungry."

A groggy Fenton Hardy looked around at the sound of the voice. Glancing first at his sons and Jerry Gilroy and Sam Radley, who all seemed fine if not a bit cold and exhausted, Fenton called out, "Orangethorpe? Where are you?"

The detainees were spaced out in the middle of the desolate, expansive snowy field. There was no sign of any of their adversaries.

"Where's van Bueren?" Joe called out. "What have you done with him?"

Orangethorpe's voice reverberated again from somewhere. "Rest assured, Hardy, you will be joining him soon. But for now I cannot begin to describe the pleasure my writers will have in turning your folly into a compelling mystery for the impressionable youths of your country!"

Joe attempted to free his bonds wildly but to no avail. The voice of Orangethorpe laughed, heartier the more Joe tried to break loose. Frank watched on dismayed, glancing over at his father. Mr. Hardy only shook his head, himself subtly trying the strength of the ropes behind him.

At the Hixon camp, the Jedediah sent in motion as Monroe taught him the unmanned truck towards the police officers. The bricks placed on the pedal allowed it to rumble at an increasingly higher speed.

Meanwhile, Jedediah hopped on his motorcycle with a sidecar. He was joined by another ruffian, and the others gripped the Hardys' bicycles and set off into the forest.

Fortunately, thanks to Iola's own independent sleuthing as commissioned by Fenton, she had identified the ruffians as runaways from Cherryville Orphanage in the nearby town of Cherryville. Orderlies were en route to Hixon to retrieve them.

Not noticing that it was a mannequin set in the driver's seat of the driver-less truck, the officers signaled for the truck to stop, yet to no avail. Collig's eyes, studying the vehicle through his binoculars, widened in terror.

"Men, out of the way," he called from above, waving his arms wildly. He screamed at Officer Con Riley, "It's a trap!"

"Move, men!" they both called.

Diving out of the way as the truck neared it suddenly exploded into a tremendous, terrible force of combustion, metal, and fireball.

As Ike Harrity's vessel sliced through the roaring waves southbound on the Hudson Bay, Chet Morton leaned against the rail portside. He was determined not to lose the battle against his wrenching stomach.

"Chet, you've been green since we passed Coats Island," Biff complained. "You have to get yourself together! We're going into enemy territory and need you."

"You're right, Biff. Besides, I don't want our writer friend, Dixon, casting me in a bad light."

As the two Bayport chums chatted on the exterior of the vessel, they heard a steady droning sound from above gradually grow louder. Both, curious and not a bit concerned, looked up.

An aircraft seemed to be coming toward them until it jetted directly overhead. It gradually circled around and again flew over them.

"That's _Skyhappy Sal_!" Chet declared triumphantly.

"Indeed it is, old buddy!" Biff agreed jubilantly. "Captain Harrity gave him the perfect coordinates. Now we have to do our part!"

"I-I don't know about this!" suddenly Chet's tone had changed.

F.W. Dixon emerged from the helm to watch Wayne expertly guide his craft to hover above before dropping a ladder that dangled just above Biff's reach.

"Help me up, fellows!" Biff declared, excitement in his voice.

Chet and F.W. complied as they each hoisted up Biff's legs. He grabbed ahold of the ladder and heaved himself up the rungs.

"Come on, Chet!" he urged his chubby friend.

Ike Harrity craned his head towards the spectacle. He couldn't help but grin as the sweating, green-faced lad in his Bayport High School sweater gripped his elbows around the rungs.

"You have to climb up, Morton!" Dixon called from underneath. "I'm going with you."

"If I had known this would be part of the deal," Chet gurgled, "I would have ensured I consumed a proper meal beforehand."

Then he forced himself to follow Biff towards the plane, moving up enough in order for the reporter to also grab ahold of the ladder.

Yet instead of waiting for the three to successfully enter the cabin, Jack Wayne took off towards land. The three hung to dear life as the brutal Canadian wind whipped across their faces, their bodies flailing as they clutched the ladder.

"Don't look down!" Biff shouted as he yelled in jubilation, gazing at the sparkling blue water below him, the bay surrounded by snow-capped mountains. "Wait 'till they hear about this back in Bayport!" he yelled.

"Oh, they will," F.W. Dixon called from below. "People might not believe it, but I'll be letting them know every detail about this adventure!"

Chet, between them, moaned. "E-every detail, Mr. Dixon?"

The young reporter laughed as Jack Wayne's aircraft sliced through Manitoban airspace, gliding over the Hudson Bay.

Tony Prito leaned forward on his steering wheel as he guided the truck over the uneven, abandoned road heading towards Hixon. In the passenger seat was Iola Morton. Wedged between them was Phil Cohen.

"Look at that black cloud emanating from down the valley," Phil pointed out.

"That has to be our guys," Prito declared, ever-focused on the road before him. "I didn't expect to ever be back in this forsaken part of the state, but now that I am, I want nothing more than to bring these hoodlums to justice."

Suddenly, careened around the bend headed towards the three Bayporters were Jedediah in his motorcycle and a fellow ruffian in the sidecar. It zig-zagged at them with no sign of abating!

"Look out, Tony!" Iola declared.

Tony expertly maneuvered the truck out of the way of the twisting motorcycle. As the vehicles passed, each gave the other a perplexed look.

"That's them!" Iola called out.

Immediately, Tony caromed the truck, shifted into another gear, and pursued the motorcycle and it fled momentarily out of sight.

At the Hixon camp, Con Riley radioed in to the closest fire station requesting a fire truck to the scene. The blaze was large enough that flames caught the tent set up by the Soviets. Soon, their entire camp was engulfed.

Collig and his men scoured the area making sure their men were unharmed by the explosion as well as any signs of life from the adversaries.

"There's a new camp being developed in the homeland," Orangethorpe's calmly voice boomed across the bleak field where the captives were held. "It's not quite ready yet, but we need some test subjects. You're all fit for labor work, aren't you, strapping lads from Bayport? My superiors are thinking of calling it 'gulag'."

Fenton Hardy gritted his teeth. "That may be how life is decided in the East, Orangethorpe," he growled, "But not here in the West." He gain tested his bonds.

 _Skyhappy Sal_ was now flying over forested land, just above the pointed tips of large, green pine trees. Jack Wayne, ever focused on his destination, was headed towards the Syndicate's fortress, Citadel. Biff, Chet, and Franklin W. Dixon had by now climbed themselves into the cabin of _Skyhappy Sal_ and per Jack's orders were donning parachute equipment.

On Wayne's radio, he heard static, followed by a strange voice. He squinted, trying to hear what his transistor was picking up on the waves.

"Harwood van Bueren was the one who first sought to poison the minds of his readers!" was what Jack Wayne heard over the intercom. He suddenly turned the volume to maximum.

"It's Janus Orangethorpe!" Chet explained from the back. "I'd recognize that voice anywhere."

"He must be speaking through some intercom system," Dixon deduced.

"Which means he can't be far. Everybody, keep an eye out!" Biff called.

At the field, during Orangethorpe's monologue, Fenton Hardy was busy surveying the land around them. His eyes fixated on a particular pine tree at the edge of the timberland that seemed unusual compared to the others.

"You, Fenton Hardy, are in no position for retaliatory remarks," Orangethorpe growled, upset. "No doubt this Radley assistant is re-thinking his commitment to joining your firm."

Sam Radley only shook his head. Mr. Hardy used the time to continue studying the odd tree. Indeed, he became convinced that it at actually wasn't a tree at all, but a fake. His eyes went to the top of it. There positioned near the tree's tip was a speaker system!

"You're desperate, Orangethorpe! You know the game is up," Radley called.

"If I want analysis from a failing gumshoe, I will certainly ask for it!" Orangethorpe growled through the intercom.

When Mr. Hardy heard the ascending roar of an approaching aircraft, he smiled to himself. He was so elated he said aloud, "Actually, Janus, I think I am in a position for retaliatory remarks!"

"What do you mean, Hardy?"

With that, _Skyhappy Sal_ roared over the desolate field.

"It's Jack Wayne!" Joe shouted joyfully.

A moment later, Biff Hooper, Chet Morton, and F.W. Dixon parachuted into the open expanse.

"Fiddlesticks!" Janus Orangethorpe quaked over the loudspeaker. "What—," the system seemed to have cut out.

Immediately, the newly arrived parachuters cut the captives' bonds. When Chet approached Joe, Joe stared at his rescuer in awe. "I never in a million…"

"Save it, Joe Hardy," the round liberator replied as he slit the ropes.

"Fenton Hardy?" Mr. Dixon asked when he sawed the ropes behind Mr. Hardy. "Very pleased to meet you, finally." Then he went over to Sam Radley.

Frank was smiling widely at Biff Hooper, himself grinning. "I'm trying to think what class I can get extra credit in for doing all of this," he said to his tied up friend.

"Maybe they'll let you graduate now, Biff," Frank jested.

At that moment, the barking Eskimo dogs grew louder.

"Orangethorpe! He's getting away!" Joe cried out.

Janus Orangethorpe was making a quick getaway on a speeding dog sled.

"We have to go after him!" Chet replied.

"He won't get far if Jack Wayne keeps an eye out on him," Mr. Hardy answered.

Then behind them, a great explosion sent them to the ground. Harwood van Bueren's writing haven-turned Communist syndicate was blowing up building after building!


	20. Chapter XIX Nabbed!

CHAPTER XIX

 _NABBED!_

The group hastened to the exploding fortress, careful not to become too deeply entrenched in the quickly gathering flames. They made out through the heat waves darting men flailing in all directions.

A dazed man stumbling away from the blazing wreckage met them. It was Orangethorpe's assistant, the stooped, shifty-eyed Prescott Chambers.

"Sir, are you all right?" Mr. Hardy asked him. He noticed his hair was disheveled, his face covered in soot, his eyes widened as if his ears were ringing.

Chambers tried to speak, gesturing to the fortress. "Mr. van Bueren…they brought him back inside."

"He's in there?" Joe asked, pointing to the burning warehouse. The man dumbly nodded. Joe whipped around, facing the others. "We have to go get him!"

Fenton Hardy hesitated. He was about to speak when he noticed the man starting to say something else. "Yes, what is it?" the detective prodded.

"Master Orangethorpe," the butler croaked. "Dog sled…" he trailed off.

"Yes, he's escaping on a dog sled…do you know where he's going?"

Prescott Chambers only raised a bony finger to a small barn just off van Bueren's house, which had been converted into Orangethorpe's main headquarters.

Frank and Biff darted over to the barn doors and flung them open. Biff jumped when they were greeted by the hungry barking of Eskimo dogs arranged in small kennels, their mouths salivating, sharp teeth glistening.

Meanwhile, Joe tugged at Chet's sweater. "We have to get van Bueren out of there!"

"Okay!" Chet agreed.

"I'll go with you!" Jerry Gilroy shouted. "I know where they're keeping him."

"Sam, follow them!" Mr. Hardy advised his assistant.

Amid their father's cries for safety, Jerry, Joe, and Chet dashed into the burning warehouse, quickly disappearing within the flames. Sam Radley followed behind.

Frank and Biff meanwhile swiftly removed a pair of skis from the barn and arranged the two dogs on the leashes.

"Dad, if we want to catch Orangethorpe we have to move!" Frank pleaded.

Fenton nodded. "Get me strapped in, son," he replied. Frank helped him onto the skis. "Make sure they come out alive," he said to his eldest son, cocking his head in the direction of the burning warehouse.

"He-ya!" he exclaimed, rattling the reins that immediately set the dogs into a frenzy. Mr. Hardy set off into the dipping afternoon light, skijoring in the direction where Janus Orangethorpe was last glimpsed.

Along the deserted road that would eventually turn into Shore Road, Tony Prito, Iola Morton, and Phil Cohen gave chase in Prito's truck after Jedediah and his speedy motorcycle.

"Where can he possibly be going?" Phil wondered. "He must know he's out of options."

"It may not be enough to just send him back to the orphanage," Iola muttered, biting her lip.

"What do you mean?" Phi asked.

"If they just put the boys back into the routine they left, they'll never change. There needs to be some kind of immediate help so they aren't resentful."

Tony, while quickly swerving his truck around a sharp bend, the road winding higher up along an escalating mountain pass, agreed with his classmate. "Iola's right, Phil. The Soviet ideology has run so deep it will take lengthy therapy sessions to bring them out of it."

"We can help!" Phil exclaimed. "We can visit the orphanage and show there's another way. A better way."

"Well, right now, they probably think we're out to hurt them!" Iola decried.

Tony thought about Iola's comment, easing up on the accelerator. "Right again," he admitted. "What do you suggest?"

Iola fished around the back of the truck. "Do you have any Taylor Gang books?"

"In my backpack," Phil directed her. "What do you want to do with them?"

"Take the service trail down here so we can cut them off on the downside of the slope."

Phil and Tony only looked at each other and shrugged. She wasn't Joe's girl for nothing.

Fenton, who had previously skijored in the German Steigerwald forest when he was off duty during his time as an MP, expertly guided the hungry, wild Eskimo dogs following the marks left by Orangethorpe's sled.

"Either Orangethorpe has an escape route planned or is leading me into a trap," he thought. But the thought of his sons and their friends in the middle of a burning building was his chief concern at the moment.

F.W. Dixon gingerly sat Prescott Chambers down on a recliner in Harwood van Bueren's home. Orangethorpe's men had left it a disaster. Trash was strewn about, papers and maps were left lying around, plates of food left unwashed.

"If you can rest here, I have to help the others," Dixon pleaded to the butler.

"Before you go, young man," Chambers muttered. "There is one thing I have to show you."

"What is it?" Dixon asked.

"Go into Harwood van Bueren's adjacent garage, down the corridor there, make a left and another left. There you will find what you are looking for."

Dixon, a little confused, complied. He hoped he would not get lost in the van Bueren house as he tried to find the garage.

In the warehouse, Joe, Radley, and the others battled the flames as they attempted to find Harwood van Bueren before the entire fortress collapsed. Jerry, knowing exactly where to go, brazenly led them down one of the abandoned stairwells.

"Look out, Chet!" Joe pushed his friend out of the way from a falling rafter.

"This place is melting!" Chet wailed.

"Over here!" Jerry Gilroy shouted up ahead.

The smoke, heat, and sound of the blaze threatened to throw the rescue mission into chaos.

"Mr. van Bueren! Mr. van Bueren! Are you there?" the boys shouted. There was no answer. The fire was quickly becoming all consuming.

As Ike Harrity arrived at the Hudson Bay's in-development port, Port of Churchill, he detected scrambling men loading themselves and some luggage onto a small vessel. Harrity picked up his binoculars and studied them further. It was Kilbride, Townsend, other ringleaders, and the ghostwriters all frantically attempting to escape the region.

Harrity put the binoculars down, his white eyebrows narrowing. "Soviets," he growled. Then he picked up his radio. "RCMP this is Ike Harrity at the Port of Churchill, over."

After a cackle, he heard a response. "Go ahead, Harrity."

"I have identified the subversives about to escape on a vessel at the south end of the bay."

"Roger, keep an eye on them. We'll send a vessel to round 'em up." Harrity signed off, nodding once in pleasant approval as he eyed the treasonous insubordinates.

"There he is!" Joe Hardy exclaimed as he spotted Harwood van Bueren tied up to a chair in the middle of a flame-engulfing room. The boys surrounded the reclusive writer and quickly untied him. He had lost consciousness. Sam Radley threw the man on his back as they single-file attempted to escape the impinging fire.

"Over here!" Voices called from a smoky part of the flaming building. Biff and Frank were signaling an escape route!

"It's over, Orangethorpe!" Fenton Hardy called when his nemesis came into sight across an undulating field with a large mountain dominating the landscape.

Orangethorpe, bending over feverishly hounding his Eskimo dogs, their paws sending shards of snow in the air, craned back to see Fenton skijoring towards him.

Orangethorpe only grinned wildly and snapped the reins. "Yah!" he shouted.

Fenton could see Orangethorpe was approaching a frozen lake. Yet he continued to give chase.

At the bottom of the deserted road that turned into Shore Road, Jedediah coasted his motorcycle and sidecar down the slope. He thought he had lost the truck, that same one that rescued those kids from the branding that seemed so long ago.

"Look out!" his cohort in the sidecar shouted.

Suddenly, Jedediah slammed on his brake. Ahead of him was a young woman, about his age, standing in the middle of the road. _She was holding a Taylor Gang book!_

"What are you doing?" he shouted, dismounting the cycle and charging towards Iola. "What are you doing with that book? Hey—" he stopped when he noticed Iola. "I know you!"

"Maybe I'll burn this," she said boldly. "Isn't that how you like to express yourself?"

"Give me that!" Jedediah shouted, grabbing for the book. But Iola pulled it away. Jedediah's youthful henchman approached her from the other side. Then, Tony Prito's truck, hiding behind a large brush, barreled over Jedediah's motorcycle and skidded to a halt just in front of them.

"M-my bike!"

Immediately, Prito and Cohen jumped out of the truck and seized the wayward youths. The fight had gone out of them and they surrendered.

"I don't think you'll be needing this anymore," Iola casually commented, flinging _Rules for Uprising_ over the drop that led to the Willow River.

A devastated Jedediah watched the disappearing book in horror.

"In the land of freedom," Tony Prito said proudly, "We don't need a book of tactics to drive a wedge into the opposition. We only believe what we say and say what we believe and have clean consciences because of it."

Dejectedly, Jedediah and his unruly accomplice followed the Bayporters to the Prito truck. In a short while, they were returned to the Cherryville Orphanage. In turn, the Bayporters promised to pay a regular visit to the facility to host reading hours and story time for the infants.

In the van Bueren garage, F.W. Dixon found a tarp covering something in the middle of the space. He gripped an edge of it and billowed the canvas off whatever it was concealing.

The writer's eyes glistened at what he saw before him.

From the perspective of _Skyhappy Sal_ , Jack Wayne radioed to the RCMP regarding the fires at the Syndicate compound. Within moments, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had dispatched a squadron of aerial firefighting crafts to douse the blaze.

By then, the Bayporters had safely brought an extremely ill Harwood van Bueren into his old home. The shifty-eyed, stooped man acquiesced any further wrongdoing and promised he would turn himself in to authorities. But first, he gladly helped care for the ailing van Bueren.

"Frank, Joe, everyone else," F.W. Dixon called from the hallway. "I have to show you something."

The curious teenagers followed Dixon to the garage. Sam Radley stayed with van Bueren.

In the garage, Dixon grandly gestured that they enter first.

They whistled upon entering. "Will you look at that beauty!" Chet declared, wiping black soot from his eyes.

A multi-passenger snowmobile sat ready for use. Prescott Chambers appeared at the doorway. "It might be the only thing that will stop Janus from escaping," he said. And after a pause, continued, "And save your father."

"What do you mean?" Frank asked defiantly.

At the lake, Orangethorpe ordered his Eskimo dogs onto the perilous ice without abandon. But Mr. Hardy was much more cautious. As he neared the frozen water, he debated whether he should continue or wait.

"I can't let him get away," Mr. Hardy said to himself. Within a moment, he too ordered his dogs onto the ice-covered lagoon.

Ike Harrity smiled in satisfaction as he observed the Canadian Coast Guard intercept the vessel Kilbride and the others were attempting to use for escape. All over Manitoba, other RCMP would round up the fleeing ghosts from Orangethorpe's Citadel fortress. For now, however, Ike Harrity could only hope those brave boys from Bayport were also holding up their end of preserving the ideals of liberty.

At that moment, with Frank at the wheel, Harwood van Bueren's personal motorized snowmobile coasted across the Canadian open fields and slopes. Next to Frank sat Joe, the wind billowing at his face. Behind him were Jerry, Biff, and Chet bringing up the rear. F.W. Dixon and Sam Radley remained behind at the house to oversee the rescue effort from the RCMP of Harwood van Bueren and the successful surrender of Prescott Chambers, who once also worked for van Bueren before Orangethorpe's seizing of the publishing house.

As Orangethorpe crossed the halfway point on the frozen lake, he did not let it deter him that he could hear the occasional cracking of ice underneath his sled. The fearless detective, Fenton Hardy, was attempting to catch up with Orangethorpe before he reached the other end of the lake.

What Orangethorpe did not intend was the usage of Harwood van Bueren's snowmobile. It is likely he never knew about its existence, as he had never entered the private garage off the main house.

When he heard the drone of its motor, Orangethorpe did a double take. Frank Hardy was coasting towards him on the snow-covered ground. The intelligent, dark-haired boy dared not attempt such a machine on the increasing tepid waters. Such a decision was proving beneficial as the machine gradually approached Orangethorpe.

Orangethorpe knew he could not stay on the lake for long. He had to try to outrun the snowmobile.

Then, luck seized Janus Orangethorpe.

The ice gave way under Fenton Hardy's skis. _Fenton Hardy plunged into the freezing waters!_

"Dad!" Joe shouted from the passenger seat of the snowmobile.

"Go!" Frank ordered to his younger brother. Immediately, Joe hurtled himself off the speeding vehicle. Biff did the same along with Jerry.

"Should I go, too?" Chet wondered, shouting above the noise and wind. "I need to help!"

"They'll get him!" Frank roared. "Now we need Orangethorpe!"

Joe and the others slid across the tenuous ice to the hole where Mr. Hardy disappeared. A flailing hand shot through the icy waters. The Bayporters formed a human chain so as to prevent anyone else from falling into the glacial crevice.

Joe craned his own hand and grabbed his father's forearm. With Herculean strength, he pulled him out of the frigid waters.

Mr. Hardy coughed violently, expelling the water from his lungs. Then, he managed a tired smile. "Thanks, son," he rasped. "Still want to be a detective?"

"Do I?" his son exclaimed. "You bet!"

Orangethorpe neared the edge of the lake where a narrow path into a forest of trees would prove a fruitful getaway. Its thickness would prove too much for the bulky snowmobile, he reckoned. And chances are that Morton would slow the more athletic Frank down in a foot pursuit.

But the nearing snowmobile, with its engine and accompanying noise to boot, startled the now-exhausted Eskimo dogs. As the snowmobile closed in on a broadside approach, the dogs slowed down, frightened.

"Haw, haw!" Orangethorpe desperately shouted, jangling his reins. But as the Eskimo dogs suddenly halted, the force of Orangethorpe's slowed sled propelled him forward the sled violently twisting horizontally. So violent was the motion that it sent Janus Orangethorpe hurtling in the air!

Orangethorpe, terrorized, waved his hands wildly as he flew from the sled and suddenly smacked headfirst into the hardened snow at the edge of the lake. The force was so strong Orangethorpe did not move.

"Round up the dogs, Chet!" Frank directed with finality.

"M-me?" Chet asked innocently. Yet he dutifully approached the now tamed animals and had no trouble soothing them.

Frank grabbed Orangethorpe by the collar and turned him over. The force and the cold of the snow inflamed the thin man's face. He grimaced, but otherwise he was all right.

Above, Jack Wayne's _Skyhappy Sal_ and RCMP helicopters circled over the lake. A soaked Mr. Hardy and the other boys joined a triumphant Frank and Chet as they loomed over the fallen Orangethorpe.

"He did himself in," Mr. Hardy said. "But not without you boys," he proclaimed proudly. " _All_ of you."

"It's a fitting end to Orangethorpe, isn't it?" Chet said.

"In what way?" Jerry asked.

"He's all red."


	21. Chapter XX Hardy & Sons

CHAPTER XX

 _HARDY & SONS_

Callie Shaw typed the last of her assignment before snatching it from the typewriter. She set the title page on the thick stack of neatly organized papers before her. It read: " _The Secret Syndicate_. A Biography of Harwood van Bueren. Research by Callie Shaw."

"Well?" she asked the man sitting across from the desk. "What do you think?"

Franklin W. Dixon smiled. "If the university journalism department doesn't accept it, _Literary Monthly_ will gladly print it. In fact, I'm going to ask Mr. Sorma if he can run it on the front page of the next issue. Good title, too."

Having returned her research books at the library counter, Callie said good-bye to Mr. Dixon. He planned on remaining in the library to document all that had transpired regarding the kidnapping of Harwood van Bueren and the forging of his Taylor Gang series by Janus Orangethorpe's secret syndicate.

As he notated all the incidents, a thought that had been recurring again brimmed to the front of his mind. He absolutely could not let it go, he decided.

Perhaps his time at _Literary Monthly_ had come to an end. Perhaps a new vocational challenge lay before him. In fact, the odyssey he had just participated in would prove to be the origin for a remarkable mystery stories he had no idea would transform modern literature. And that talented Frank and Joe, he smiled, shaking his head. They would be the leading men!

"Closing time," a librarian hissed in Dixon's ear. Dixon ducked his head apologetically. He gathered his things and exited the dimming library.

He was due to see the Hardys one last time at their house on Elm and High the next day. Little did Franklin W. Dixon know, however, that his dream of becoming a full time novelist would come true when he chronicled the very next mystery Frank and Joe found themselves, a strange and exciting mystery called _The Tower Treasure_.

The next day, Dixon had arrived just as the celebration at the Hardy house was underway. Mrs. Hardy and neighbors had banned together for a delicious assortment of finger-foods, rich delicatessens, and refreshing beverages.

Mr. Hardy's older sister, Gertrude, had even sent banana cream pie and peanut butter cookies strictly for Chet Morton. The treats did not come without a warning from the angular, unmarried woman: "No more mysteries!"

The Hardys and the friends who helped nab Orangethorpe while rounding up the syndicate, Biff, Tony, Phil and Jerry, were all in attendance. As they tossed the football around in the front yard, Frank and Joe told them of their plans to convert part of the barn into their own detective shop.

"With Dad now moving his study into the house, we'll have room for both a gym and our own sleuthing workshop of our own!" Joe declared.

"Of course, none of this could be done without you fellows," Frank followed.

"Thanks, gents, but there's still one big part of this mystery," Phil mentioned with a straight face.

"What's that?" Joe asked.

"Where's Callie and Iola?"

"Even more important, where's Chet? His banana cream pie is getting runny!" Biff added.

They laughed and all agreed that Chet's tardiness was highly unusual.

Among the other guests chatting amiably with Mr. and Mrs. Hardy and each other, in addition to Franklin W. Dixon, were Ike Harrity, Mr. Sorma and Scott Duffield, Sam Radley and his wife, Jack Wayne, Chief Collig, Officer Con Riley, and other members of the Bayport Police Department.

Collig was particularly pleased that Orangethorpe confessed all and also delivered names and addresses of Communist sympathizers with plans to also subvert treasured Western ideals into their evil schemes.

"And rest assured, Fenton and others, that your government is grateful for your dedication to its quest for freedom from oppression in all forms," Scott Duffield declared in a private gathering of those who assisted Mr. Hardy in the breakup of the Syndicate.

Mr. Sinclair of Sinclair's Bookstore announced that because all of the new Taylor Street Gang books were currently being discredited and disowned by Dole & Toler Publishing, he would be hosting a book signing next month at his store featuring the one and only Harwood van Bueren. Mr. Sinclair would be gladly donating his own copies of Taylor Gang originals to contribute back out to society.

"But those are your own copies!" Frank commented to Mr. Sinclair after congratulating him on the decision.

"When one experiences a great joy, Frank," the book proprietor answered, "He must share it with others. He cannot keep it to himself. Otherwise it would just die with him. And what's the point of that?"

Finally, a choking engine noise was heard rumbling down Elm Street. Chet Morton's jalopy was now painted yellow!

"What happened to the Queen?!" Jerry Gilroy asked, astonished, as the group gathered around the buttery-colored roadster.

Riding with the portly fellow were his sister, Iola, and Callie.

"I thought you'd never get here," Frank said to Callie, helping her out of the backseat. "How did you live with yourself riding in _that_?" She playfully released her hold on Frank's hand.

"Chet was so excited about banana cream pie," Iola breathlessly told everyone as they admired the unmistakable automobile, "Chet got up in the middle of the night and painted the Queen yellow!"

"I asked Mr. van Bueren if I can transplant his snowmobile engine into my jalopy," Chet said proudly.

The others laughed. "What did he say?" Joe asked.

"He said maybe he'll donate it to me after he rides it down to Bayport for his book signing at Mr. Sinclair's."

"Come off it," Biff guffawed, "He _said_ that?"

"Mr. Dixon was there. You heard that, right, Mr. Dixon?" Chet prodded the young author who he had grown fond of over the course of the mystery.

"I really can't say that's true, Morton," the writer deadpanned as he sipped from a glass of cola.

"Are you going to write about Harwood van Bueren now, Mr. Dixon?" Joe probed.

"I'm not sure about Harwood," Dixon replied, shaking the ice in his glass. "But maybe I'll write about _you_ ," he said, pointing to the Bayport gang.

After the celebration ended, Mr. and Mrs. Hardy invited their sons to the barn. There, the boys noticed something draped over by tarps.

"A snowmobile?" Joe teased.

"A little more practical for Bayport," Mr. Hardy replied. "Boys, you showed more courage than I could even have hoped for," he began.

Mrs. Hardy added, "We just want you to know that your safety and your own formation as young men are important. We don't want you to think this is how you have to live your young lives."

"We were never more happier than helping you out, Dad," Frank answered and Joe agreed. "Thank you for encouraging us to live out our passions."

"Well, here's a small thank you in return for your service," their father said. "You boys do the honors."

Eagerly, the boys whipped off the tarp and squealed in delight. "Motorcycles!" they shouted.

"Figure you'll never see those bicycles Jedediah and his crew snatched," Mr. Hardy goaded.

"We'll never live that down, will we?" Joe smiled as he and Frank pored over their new gifts. "Can we take them out now?"

"As a matter of fact, I have an errand for you to run. Take your new bikes out to Willowville," their father directed. "These legal papers need to be delivered to a lawyer named Calhoun. They're related to the Orangethorpe forgery case. Can you see to it?"

"You bet, Dad," Frank answered taking the papers and storing them in his pocket.

With each giving a kiss to their mother, they set out on their new cycles towards Willowville.

"What do you think these papers are about, Frank?" Joe wondered as they zoomed onto Shore Road.

"Maybe they're legal documentation setting up the firm of Hardy & Sons!" Frank joked.

Suddenly, Joe whizzed by his older brother.

As the Bayport breeze whipped around him, the feeling of youth and victory each tugging at his joyous heart, Frank called out to Joe, "Say, brother, don't be a speed demon now!"

And with that, Frank revved his engine, kicked the lever into high gear, and soared after Joe.

THE END


	22. Acknowledgements

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Having lived and breathed the adventures of the Bayport detectives for so many mysteries—surely a record for any sleuth, let alone teenage sleuths—in the latter years I often would "unwind" from my duties as a writer by visiting the delightful resources dedicated to the Hardy Boys that have been constructed over the years on the World Wide Web by both fan and serious enthusiast alike.

My thanks to the richness of the following: _The Hardy Boys Online_ , Will Oxford's devoted and detailed page that even served as a reminder of my own blessed history chronicling the Hardy odyssey. _The Hardy Boys Wiki_ is as valuable to any student of Bayport as the complete set of Funk  & Wagnalls encyclopedias is to elementary youths. Nicolas Akmakjian's keen _Hardy Boys Book Reviews_ is a third excellent resource. Finally, _the hardy boys unofficial home page_ is a pleasurable and exhausting rabbit's hole into the world I have dedicated my life.

The "fan fiction" domain has again flattered me with its devotees and talented writers expanding the Bayport universe. Having never published solely to the World Wide Web, I immensely enjoyed serializing _The Secret Syndicate_ at a disciplined routine of one chapter per weekday on in January—February 2017, the 90th anniversary of not only the launching of the beloved series, but the fond anniversary of the events detailed in _The Secret Syndicate_. I appreciate the dedicated and positive responses from all reviewers, especially "TinDog," "max2013," and "Cherylann Rivers." May your Bayportian goodwill continue to emanate across the ether.

To this end, in addition to my own documentation, the written testimonies of Fenton, Frank and Joe Hardy, and the log of Ike Harrity, I am grateful for the sharp oral recollections unvarnished by time of Callie Shaw, Allen Hooper, and especially Gerald Gilroy, whose unheralded bravery, gone largely unnoticed, cracked open the Syndicate case.

I am grateful for the prodding of my own brother, Juan P. Dixon, for his encouragement to follow hidden trails and strange clues. Given our unique family history, my brother's Mexican heritage has been wonderful to explore from my own Anglo-Saxon perspective, particularly when the Hardys ventured south of the border, such as in _The_ _Mark on the Door_ and _Footprints Under the Window_ and _The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior_ and _The Jungle Pyramid_. I look forward to our next exchange of glances in person.

Thanks also to Caesar Sorma, Scott Duffield (wherever you are!), my parents for encouraging us to read and write, and my agent, Duckworth Mugsy, Jr.

One item I thought worthwhile to address. I am eternally befuddled by these recurring names (L. McFarlane, H. Adams, A. Svenson, _et al_ ) routinely cited as the real authors of The Hardy Boys. Notwithstanding the undeniable brilliance and prolificacy of one Edward Stratemeyer—who bears a striking resemblance to the late Harwood van Bueren (d. 1930)—and the dedication of all ghostwriters to ideas beyond themselves, I understand Grosset & Dunlap's need to package the plethora of the Hardy Boys mysteries as juvenile fiction, hence their creativity in assigning their own "ghosts" to my material, no doubt their own "in-joke" at rejecting my own manuscript wherein ghosts are integral part of the mystery!

But rest assured, the Hardys always get their man. For this world of Bayport is far more than juvenile fiction.

It is a world of truth.

It is a world needed now more than ever.

I believe _The Secret Syndicate_ , at long last finally published, has proven that.

F.W.D

Bayport, U.S.A.

2017


End file.
